


Killing Me Softly

by Sharlot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Concussions, Episode: s01e06 Skin, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Mind Control, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharlot/pseuds/Sharlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a case in Louisville, KY, Dean gets a song stuck in his head. He's not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> These events take place directly following those in Season One's "Skin". Assume spoilers up to that point.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for choosing to read my story.

 

“What, you want me to paint you a picture, dude?” Dean was not amused. It had only been a five hour drive from St. Louis to Louisville, but with Sam humming the same old tired ditty about the Shapeshifter, it had felt as long as the fuckin’ Iditarod and just as warm and inviting. “How many different ways can I put it for you? The Shapeshifter was lying. Geez, dude, just give it a rest, already!” The first few bars of Zep’s _, The Song Remains the Same_ began to play. _Talk about fuckin’ irony_. Dean snorted at the thought.

“Look man, I’m not trying to piss you off. I just wanted you to be open with me. You know you can talk to me about this.” Sam was still a little unraveled over what the Shapeshifter had said. Its words were still rattling around his brain. _He’s sure got issues with you. You got to go to college. He had to stay home. I mean, I had to stay home. With Dad. You don’t think I had dreams of my own? But Dad needed me. Where the hell were you?_ Did Dean truly harbor that much resentment? It had rankled deep and Sam wanted to discuss it, but his brother was completely walled off, as always.

Dean looked in the rearview mirror and caught the translucent, shimmering aura of the October sun as it dipped far beyond the Ohio River, back toward St. Louis and that goddamned monster spouting half-truths with his voice. “Sammy, you know those things talk shit just to mess with you. Come on, we’re here in Louisville, so let’s get our head in the game, OK?” He made sure to overstress the name—incorrect pronunciation was a pet peeve of Sam’s, so he tossed that steak as high and as far as he could.

“It’s pronounced Loo-uh-vul, Dean.” Sam said absently. _Good doggy!_

“It’s pronounced how?” Dean lobbed a chew toy to keep the steak company.

“Loo-uh-vul.” Sam repeated.

“Nuh uh,” Dean said. “What about the ‘Loo-wee-ville’ Slugger, then?” he asked with convincing incredulity, grinning as his clueless brother loped after the goodies.

Sam tiredly stretched his neck but kept his eyes on the map. He was trying to make sure they didn’t miss their exit. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. That’s how they pronounce it, here. Don’t you remember from when we were here in ‘98?” Dean’s face glazed a bit as he quietly flipped through his internal card-catalog of hunts.  Sam prompted, "Vengeful spirit?  That crazy tennis-shoe company heiress. The one that had lived in that old hotel." Still just a blank-face from Dean.  "C'mon, man, you know, the...the crazy-lady ghost who had that thing for hamburgers.” That did it.

“Oh yeah, that one. 'Nike,'” Dean said awash in the glow of his inner light-bulb. "I distracted her with that bag of sliders, while you salted and burned the bones. Good times,” he chuckled. “Man, what a weird hunt. What a weird town.”

“It was 'Converse',” said Sam, “and at least you liked the Derby Pie, here.”

“Mmm, pie.” Dean agreed. “Ok, so what exactly is the deal here in old Loo-wee-ville?” he said, pointedly mispronouncing the name with a grin. Sam bitchfaced him upside the head but then just gave in and grabbed the newspaper with the story that’d brought them there. _Steak eaten. Chew toy chased. Shapeshifter talk averted. I’m like freakin’ Van Gogh, here!_ Dean grinned wide and gave his brother a nudging thwack on the arm. “Come on, man. What do we got?”

Sam pointed to the Bardstown Road exit indicating for Dean to take it then gave his attention to the newspaper article. “Ok,” he said, “three deaths in the last couple of months. All had connections to _The Louisville Artistic Endeavor,_ a local amateur artistic community center where people get together to network and share their own works of art, literature, composition and the like.”

“Ok, so a bunch of crappy dead artists, and where do we come in?” Dean asked.

“Well, it’s really weird.” Sam regarded the newspaper. “Autopsies on each have come up inconclusive.”

“Environmental cause?” Dean suggested.

“Seems reasonable, but they’ve found nothing. That’s not the weird part, though,” Sam said. “Apparently prior to each death, the victim became highly…how should I say it? Creatively obsessive. Prolific. It’s like they turned into creative savants over night, producing works of sheer genius in whatever medium they had chosen: sculpture, poetry, photography. Now, these pieces have art critics, publishing companies and museums clamoring. Yet all had been mere amateurs. One of the guys, the photographer, he was just the janitor for the center. He’d no previous experience or artistic ability at all. One day he’s a janitor, the next he’s Ansel Adams.”

“Crossroad’s Deals?” Dean offered.

Sam held up a finger, “You’d think, but it doesn’t seem likely, man,” he said. “Each instance occurred within a span of a week or so, and they certainly never got a chance to profit from anything.” Sam pointed. “Motel’s right up here on the right.”

“OK, Picasso, so what do you think it is?” Dean steered the Impala into the parking lot of the Derby City Motel and turned off the engine.

“Honestly?” Sam said. “I’ve no idea. I called the center and spoke with a Cleo Harper. She’s the director of the center and she’s agreed to meet with us tonight.”

“Tonight?” Dean griped. “Aw man, it’s getting dark. I was thinking food, drinks, some pool and maybe…you know…” He pressed the flat of his front teeth against his lower lip and did a pigeon-like head-bob in an attempt to approximate ‘getting his freak on’.

“Dude, your brain’s not right.” Sam shook his head in puritanical indignation.

“Nuh uh Sammy, both m’brains are working just fine!” he said saucily, pointing to both the ‘upstairs’ and the ‘downstairs’ versions. He cackled like he’d said the funniest thing in the world.

Sam considered him a moment. “You are such a libertine,” he chided. “Stay here while I go check us in.”

Dean looked confused and slightly taken aback. “You know I don’t vote, dude.”

* *

“What’s the room number?” Dean asked shouldering both his and Sam’s duffels and handing him the weapons tote. Sam grabbed the bag and pointed to the nearby room and unlocked the door. Dean tossed his duffel on the near bed and lobbed Sam’s over to the bed across the room. The room itself was pure Kentucky Derby kitsch, tacky horse pictures on the wall and a race-horse themed partition between the kitchenette and the sleeping area.

Dean rifled through his duffel, sniffing a shirt to see if it was fresher than the one he had on. “So what’s our cover? FBI? CDC?” he asked. “We suiting up for this?”

Sam hesitated just a bit and cleared his throat. “Um neither. I told her I was a Grad-student from Stanford here to study the occurrences of spontaneous savantism.”

Dean’s eyes shuttered, wary, having caught every single word he said, or didn’t say. “Ok, Einstein. So you better lend me some of your pansy-ass preppy clothes, then, so I can look the part, at least.”

“I didn’t tell her you were a Grad-student.” Sam admitted, clearing his throat. “I said I was traveling with my brother—a mechanic.”

Dean stood there blinking like an owl, insulted, surprised. His eyes flattened. “OK, so…what? You don’t think I could pull off a Grad-student?” he asked bitterly.

“Dude, it’s not like that,” Sam defended himself. “I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable if the talk got too academic. There’s going to be a poetry reading at the Café tonight, from the collection of one of the victims. I didn’t want you to feel out of place or unsure.”

Dean huffed out a blast of resentment and disgust, his previous good mood having taken a sudden, ugly turn. “Whatever, dude.” He silently fumed his way to the door with his hackles raised high. Sam blocked his path, trying to pacify his volatile brother.

“Dean,” he began.

“Let’s just go and get this over with.” Dean said blankly. He’d completely shut down, now, and Sam knew that any attempt to get him to understand was pointless, at least not right now. He sighed and moved aside, letting his brother push sullenly past him into the cool October evening.

* *

Cleo Harper’s handshake was as masculine as her features, and very, very enthusiastic. John had always taught his boys to have a firm shake, but he had nothing on this tall, thick, eccentrically dressed, forty-something year old woman. Her 1920’s styled hair-bob actually made her look just a little like a transvestite, and Sam wasn’t entirely convinced she wasn’t. He tried not to stare too conspicuously as he checked her cleavage and neck for any tell-tales. She appeared to be the genuine article, though.

“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you, Sam.” She kept shaking. “And this is your brother, Dean?” She practically arm wrestled him. “So nice to meet you, too, honey.” She introduced the shorter, younger woman at her side. “This is Leana Sheehan. She’s an Art History student at U of L. She’s interning as my assistant this semester.”

“Nice to meet you, both.” Leana said. She appeared to be the polar opposite of Cleo, long strawberry blond hair, slim, and very attractive. She offered her hand to both Winchesters.

“Please, let’s sit down. We’ll want to order and chat before the reading starts.” Cleo settled everyone around the table.

“You’re a long way from Stanford, Sam. How did you hear about the deaths here?” Cleo ventured after their food arrived.

“Well, I’m writing a thesis on savantism. One of my professors is from Louisville and heard about what was happening. It’s extremely rare for an individual to spontaneously develop savantism without brain injury, so I asked my brother to come help me research it.” Cleo nodded, and Sam could hear his brother shift in his seat. “So, when did all of this start, Cleo?” Sam asked.

“It was a couple of months ago, now.” Cleo leaned in and waved a thick, muscular hand. “It started with Martin McKenney. He was a high school art teacher, volunteered at the center teaching sculpture to kids and seniors,” she said.

“So, he was a trained sculptor?” Sam asked.

“Well, he had studied the art form, sure, but he was far from a master. Then, out of the blue he started assembling pieces that were,” she strove for the right words, “transformative, sublime. Well,” she couldn’t quite seem to satisfy herself, “they were goddamned amazing. Then, suddenly, about a week after he started working so furiously, he was found dead at the community center. They still haven’t figured out what happened. His family had one of the Neurologists from the University Hospital do some tests, but there’s little they can really test for at this point. The brain is no longer active. You might want to talk to her. I have her name back at the center, I believe. They still haven’t released a cause of death on anyone yet as far as I know. It was tragic. Bless his heart, he was a beautiful soul.”

“Was there anything else out of the ordinary, did he act differently just before he died?" Sam asked.

Cleo thought for a moment, “Well, he was very distracted, obsessed. That was out of character for him, but he would not stop working. I tried to get him to go home and give it a rest, but he just said that he’d catch some sleep in the Center’s workshop and told me he’d lock up. I don’t know for a fact if he slept or not. The poor thing might have worked himself to death for all that anyone knows.”

Dean interjected. “Have you noticed anything strange or odd happening at the center itself?”

Cleo frowned. “Strange like how?”

“Any electrical issues, drastic temperature changes?” Dean said.

Cleo looked confused. “I…I don’t think so. Can’t imagine anything like that would have that kind of effect.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Sammy, here, he knows all about that stuff. Isn’t that right, Sammy, being a Grad-student and all?”

“Certain electrical impulses have been known to affect different centers of the brain,” Sam said glaring at Dean. Dean took a big mouthful of his Hot Brown and chewed loudly.

“Well, to my knowledge there was nothing out of the ordinary. And Paul Bohanon didn’t spend much time at the Center before he died, he collapsed taking photos at a local park.”

“He was the janitor, right?” Sam asked.

“Yes. He’d worked at the Center for a few years. Older fellow. In his early 50’s, a real handy-man. Out of the blue he borrowed some of the photography equipment from the Center and started taking pictures. I haven’t seen anything like it. Most of the collection has already been purchased, but we do have a few of his photos left. We can show you those, too. In his case, though, he stopped coming to work altogether, so I can’t tell you if he was acting strangely, because he just disappeared. About a week later he was found by hikers at Bernheim Forest, camera still in hand. It was odd though, his last few rolls of film, that is.”

“Odd how?” prompted Sam.

“Well, his last few rolls of film were nothing but unfocused photos, as though he’d snapped them all, roll after roll, by randomly clicking at nothing.” She shrugged. “Still, there’s no denying the genius behind most of the photos that he took that week. There is simply no accounting for it.”

Dean spoke with his mouth full. “How much genius does it take to snap a Kodak?” he said with a little snort.

Cleo looked at him a little taken aback. “So I take it you’re not much of an art lover, Dean?”

He shrugged a little. “Not really, ma’am. Being a mechanic and all, I don’t get to many museums.” He visibly jerked as Sam’s leg apparently made contact with a sensitive body part under the table.

Leana perked up. “A mechanic? You must be very good with your hands, then.” She looked at him with interest.

“It’s been said, sweetheart, by more’n a few.” He grinned lasciviously. Sam cleared his throat, but Leana had smiled and winked back.

Sam quickly interjected, trying to recover and get the conversation back on track. “And the last man, the poet?”

“Right,” Cleo went on. “Alex Peterson. Young fellow, his lovely fiancé, Calli, is heartbroken. The other two weren’t married, that I know of. Martin was a widower. His wife, Leia, died a few years back. Oh,” she pined, “Leia was a doll, the funniest woman I ever met, such a shame.” She pulled herself out of her reverie. “Alex, now, he was a volunteer for our creative writing program. He died about three weeks ago, and it is his poetry that is going to be read tonight. There are a couple of different publishing companies that are bidding on his work. You’ll understand what I mean when you hear it.” Dean sighed audibly. “I think it’s getting ready to start now.” An old, thin man was taking a place at the podium situated near a charming outdoor hearth.

“Do you think it would be possible to get Calli’s phone number?” Sam asked as people were beginning to hush.

“Sure honey, I’ll make sure you get it before we leave.” With that the poetry reading began.

* *

Leana yawned and made eye-contact with Dean as everyone was clapping and getting up ready to go. She mouthed ‘boring!’ and that earned her a grin from Dean. He’d been bored out of his mind, of course, and having to sit through it did nothing to improve his mood. As everyone was getting up from the table and saying their goodbyes, Leana took Dean’s hand and shook it. “It was very nice to meet you, Dean.” She glanced at his hand in hers. “You really do have wonderful hands, you know. I’d love to see you work with them one day.”

Dean looked at her a little curiously. Funny, the way she said that didn’t seem remotely like a come on. “Uh, sure thing,” he fumbled a little at her straight-forward delivery. He was used to innuendo and didn’t really know what to do without it.

After getting Calli’s contact information, Sam wished Cleo and Leana a good night and turned down the offer of a ride back to the motel since they were literally two blocks away. Sam made plans to meet them tomorrow at the Center to look at the artwork. The walk home was a little chilly, in more ways than one.

“Holy shit this place is hippy central,” said Dean as they walked past the funky red-brick buildings. They had passed an incense store, a Wiccan apothecary, a hemp fabric shop, and an art supply store all in the same block.

“Come on Dean, tell me you didn’t enjoy that. The poetry really was incredible,” Sam said.

“Well, it was no _Green Eggs and Ham_ , but, then again, I was barely paying attention.”

“I’m no expert, but I thought it was truly inspired, and I really like this quaint neighborhood. It’s offbeat and funky.”

“My god, dude, you really are just a pack of clove cigarettes and a beret away from being a beatnik, aren’t you?” Dean’s irritation was peeking through his jest.

Sam shrugged. “I dunno, I could get used to living in a neighborhood like this.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Say, why don’t we go find that famous intersection, it’s got to be around here somewhere, we can take your picture in front of it.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.

“You know, what is it? The corner of Haight and Ashbury, right? Got to be right up here a ways.” He said as they walked past a head shop.

“You’re an ass.” Sam said. Dean simply walked coolly on.

* *

“We need to talk, man,” Sam urged. He’d been well aware of Dean’s mood all evening, and the chill in the room was palpable. It was time to deal with it whether Dean wanted to or not.

“I need a drink more,” Dean said. His keys were in his hand and Sam was blocking the door.

“Dean, don’t. Talk to me, man,” Sam said.

“Nothing to talk about, Sammy. You did what you felt you had to do. Just let it go.”

“No way, man. I did not mean for you to take the Grad-student thing like that.”

Dean didn’t even try and toss the proverbial steak at this point. He’d had enough. “So, what…You spend five solid hours in the car worrying that I sacrifice everything because I’m some kind of freak that can’t stand himself, that I was resentful about having to stay with dad while you got college, you worry about me not having dreams of my own and then turn around and imply that I’m basically too stupid for anything else, is that it?” He shook his head, more in disappointment than in outright anger.

Sam flinched as though he’d taken a punch. His defenses kicked in and he started throwing a few of his own. “Well, do you resent it, Dean? Do you? I don’t want you to think you have to look out for me, Dean. You don’t have to give up everything, sacrifice your life. That’s all I’m saying, man. You don’t have to do that.” He began to lose his temper. “I don’t want you to do that. I don’t _need_ you to do that. I’m a goddamned adult,” he said bitterly. “I don’t want that kind of crap laid at my feet. I don’t want that laid on me, man.”

Dean nodded, icy eyes fixed on the door. “OK.” He moved to get past Sam. “Now get out of my way.”

“Dean, man…” Sam tried.

“I’m going out, Sam. I’m going to get a drink. Drinks. Lots of them. If I can find a woman in this freakish part of town that actually shaves her armpits, I may even be out late. Other than that, I got nothing to say.” Dean stood there still and unyielding, silently waiting for Sam to move.

Sam searched his face for a moment and then sighed. Dean was out the door without another word, leaving Sam to quietly close it in defeat.

* *

It had been a long day, and Mel was looking for some fun. She walked around the back of the bar, slowly working her way up to those brooding green eyes she’d been watching drink shot after shot until they started to look a little bleary and dull. Probably best go say hello before the hot package they were attached to tipped over. He wouldn’t be of any use to her if she let him go on much longer. She slipped onto the stool next to his and arched her back, stretching as though she’d been doing strenuous lifting all day instead of working at the tanning salon. She rubbed the back of her neck and twisted in an attempt to get a good crack out of it. He seemed pretty married to his whiskey, taking little notice of anything else. She wasn’t about to let that stop her, though.

She nudged him and smiled, “I’ll buy this round if you promise not to fall off the stool before you can buy the next,” she winked.

He turned to her and looked her up and down a little. He didn’t say anything, but he offered her a spongy leer and a nod. She hailed the bartender and ordered a whiskey for him and a chardonnay for herself. They sat together for a while making small talk, bumping hands when they drank, brushing up against each other as they laughed when some drunk spilled a drink on himself at the other end of the bar. Mel decided to make her move. Green-eyes was already five-sheets in, and if she didn’t get a taste of those lips before he passed out, she would simply splinter.

Mel rubbed her neck again seductively, ensuring his attention remained fixed on her. “Work was a killer today. I’m so tense. See?” she said tilting her head to the side exposing her neck and delicate clavicle as evidence.

“Work will do that to you,” he said, his pastel eyes washing over her indulgently.

“So other than allowing exceptionally sexy girls to buy you drinks, what else do you do?” she asked coyly.

He rolled his eyes, snorted into his whiskey and drank it like a bitter pill. “I’m a mechanic,” he said finishing off his drink and hailing the bartender for a refill.

His mood seemed to sour suddenly. She flashed him a smile, trying to recover her obvious fumble. She didn’t give a fuck about his occupation, wasn’t the slightest bit interested in sharing his dental plan. She was just interested in sharing tonight. “A mechanic? You must be very good with your hands, then,” she said suggestively.

She watched him quirk an eyebrow and smirk, sharing some inside joke with himself. He nodded and leaned in close, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath against her ear. “It’s been said. You’d have to be the judge, though.” He brought his hand up and gently massaged the nape of her neck that she’d been rubbing earlier.

“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes enjoying the thrill that shot down her spine under his touch. She eyed him with a playful smile. “But, you know, I’m not sure that’s really enough to judge.”

“No?” he played. He eased his hand down lower incrementally until her back was arching lightly as he hit the tender spot in her lower back. “How about that?”

“That’s pretty good, but I’m not quite convinced just yet,” she teased. “I might be able to tell better if we went back to my place. These stools are so hard.” She turned to him. “Don’t you think they’re hard?”

Yes. Hard. He drained his drink and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

She smiled broadly and purred. “My place, then.”

They never made it past his Impala.

Her heart thundered as he leaned her up against his car, grabbing fistfuls of her charcoal hair, tilting her face into his. His whiskey tongue brushed against her lip and she breathed it in hungrily, flicking her own against it as his hands explored the canvas of her breasts. Quivering gasps of pleasure found a way around her kiss as those hands gently kneaded and pinched all the sensitive places. She hitched up, draping a leg around his waist and pulled him close to her, allowing the pressure of his body to hold her firm against the car. Her mind started to fracture as his hands moved lower, massaging their way down until she was writhing with urgency. She frantically searched with one hand behind her for the door handle of the car.

“Door!” she panted out as her hand fumbled behind her. He reached out and grabbed it, gently easing her in and closing the door behind him. He caressed and nibbled his way up her body until he was blanketing her face to face, her back arching away from the smooth leather in an attempt to feel as much of his taut heat against her. He really was a fucking artist at this, she thought. His lips, hands, even his legs worked in unison, stroking, brushing, grazing until she was saturated in vibrant wave after vibrant wave of pleasure. She shivered under his inspired manipulations; they sharpened her senses until even the soft bristles of his eyelashes fluttering against her cheek sent a prismatic thrill right through to her soft core. Good with his hands? She tilted, inviting him in as far as he could reach. Jesus, he was a fucking _master_.

* *

She’d been watching him for hours now, silently drinking him in until very little remained. But she still thirsted. Her body whispered down the aisle of the concert hall, out from under the dark recess of the balcony, prowling close enough to hear his tormented scrawlings on the music sheets. Close enough to hear his bereft sobs. Wordlessly she crept up behind him, her eyes placid, serene. She could let him slowly bleed into her or she could take one last taste. Either way it would be over soon.

She put her lips to the nape of his neck and he stiffened at her touch, paused a moment but then went back to his scrawling. The Dark Muse looked at his work and a hint of a smile skirted her face. She leafed through his composition with its confident, purposeful script of notes filling page after soul-splashed page. Toward the end of the piece the notes had disintegrated into scratches and scribbles, the work of a toddler with a crayon. Black scrawls repeated in endless tormented loops, senseless, discordant. She laid her cheek against his head and touched a tear that ran down his cheek, gently sucking it from her finger like a confection secretively dabbed from a bowl.

He lifted his sorrowful eyes and saw her for the first time, startled. “You?” He looked at her with tired recognition. “Has it been you this whole time?” he asked forlornly.

She smiled and eased herself onto his lap, facing him, her arms draped loosely around his neck. “Did you enjoy my gift?” she prodded, gentle. Cruel.

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. “Do I have a wife? I can’t remember her name anymore. Do I have children?” he asked as he wept.

“Wife and two kids,” she said, a little bored. She dabbed at another tear and delicately licked it from her finger.

“I can’t hear it anymore. The Song. Where did it go?” he looked at his Muse and touched his head as though in great pain. “When it began I could hear colors. I could see and taste a concerto. Now, it’s all black, all foul. It’s all noise. It hurts. I can’t remember my life,” he lamented. “What did you do to me? Where did it all go?”

The Dark Muse blithely cupped his chin in her hand. “The song, the colors? It’s all here,” she pointed to her heart. “I have the love you felt.” She kissed his neck. “The fear you bore.” She caressed his ear. “The devotion you held.” She stroked his hair. “And a copy is right here.” She tapped the stack of music he’d created. “The world will know what you gave me,” she said as though to offer him solace.

He put his face in his hands and wept disconsolately. “I gave you nothing.” He moaned. “You took everything from me.”

She gently took his hands in hers and kissed his palms, her tongue lapping his tears sensually. “No.” She pet his hair. “Not quite.”

“I’m finished,” he said sadly.

“Yes.” She kissed him deeply until he slumped in her arms, his eyes empty and vacant.

The Dark Muse held her embrace long after he was gone, stroking and caressing him, softly whispering endearments into an ear that could not hear. As lovely as he had been she was still left wanting. He, like the others, had not been able to slake her thirst. She hung her head and sighed. Collecting herself, she arose from the dead man. Perhaps the new one she’d chosen would fill her. She smiled warmly at the thought. Surely he would.

* *

Dean winced and tossed up a protective hand to shield his hangover from Sam’s ruthless attack. Sam had loudly drawn back the curtains allowing the bright morning sun to dazzle his brother’s spongy eyes.

“Not cool, dude,” he croaked, one gluey, bloodshot eye popped itself open, licked its finger and tested the wind. Hmm, rough seas. The eye scurried for cover and Dean tossed a pillow over it for good measure. “S’too early,” he muffled from below deck. He chewed on his tongue, trying to get the taste of last night off of it. Was that cherry lip-balm? Christ, he felt like crap.

Hung-over or not, Dean appeared to be in better spirits. Guess a double-digit blood alcohol level and a night of casual sex was more of a panacea than Sam thought. Who knew? “It’s 10:30, man. We have to meet Cleo and Leana in an hour. And trust me,” he sniffed, “you want a shower first.”

A cheeky grin popped out from under the pillow, but its owner didn’t budge. Sam set down a cup of coffee and waved a bag of breakfast food in front of his nose causing Dean to heave and make a beeline for the bathroom. Dean could hear an outright Mutley-snigger as he dove for the toilet. “Not cool, dude!” he shot out between urps.

His head was still reverberating but he felt a little more human after a shower and a shave, though. He was brushing his teeth when he heard a cell phone ring and Sam’s muffled voice talking.

“We have to go now, Dean,” Sam called as he cracked the door and stuck his head in.

“The hell, dude, give me a minute,” he bitched around a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Cleo just called,” Sam said. “There’s been another death.”

* *

“I can’t believe it,” Cleo keened. “Thom Mitchell was a good man. He was the choir director at St. Cecilia’s and one of our Community Orchestra members. I’ve no idea what’s happening here.” Her face was pinched with sincere distress and sorrow, and she dabbed her eyes forlornly. The tears didn’t make her appear any less manly, however.

Dean stood on the apron of the stage, peering out over the orchestra pit and into the audience area, palming his homemade EMF meter. He glanced at Sam and nodded, indicating for him to cover him while he gave the place a once-over. Sam made clear eye contact and then turned to Cleo. Dean stuck the ear-buds in and nonchalantly began to sweep.

“When did they find him, Cleo?” Sam asked.

“Around 7:00 this morning. This is the hall where our community orchestra rehearses during the summer. Everything is shut down for the season, now. Our orchestra director had come to put some stuff in storage down in the basement and found him.”

Leana pointed upstage. “He was found up there slumped in a chair surrounded by a ream of music sheets. They’re still up there,” she said sadly. “I don’t know music, but I think—I think it’s probably like all the rest.” Sam and Cleo went to investigate.

Cleo knelt down and was looking at the sheets. “I’m no expert, either, but I’m sure these are important. We have to collect them and give them to his wife, Polly. They belong to her, now.” She touched the sheets sadly, at a loss.

While Sam and Cleo collected and organized the scattered sheets Leana smiled and serenely walked over to where Dean was sweeping his EMF between the proscenium arch and the apron of the stage. He noticed her and attempted to cover himself, giving off his best _I’m bored, so I’m listening to music_ vibe.

“What’s that?” she asked.

He pulled the ear-buds out of his ear and shrugged. “Oh, vintage Walkman,” he said shifting somewhat uneasily. “Just listening to some tunes while Sam does his thesis crap.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, I’ll leave you to your music, then,” she smiled, warmly patted his arm and moved off upstage to where Sam and Cleo were pouring over the composition.

Dean waited until Leana had joined the discussion upstage, then situated the ear-buds back in and continued his sweep. He’d noticed no unusual activity, although it was difficult to judge since the high voltage stage-lights gave off false readings. He was heading over to the other side of the proscenium when he started to hear a rather pensive melody coming from the headphones. He stopped and studied his meter, moving it around to see if any slight changes in altitude had any bearing on the volume or cadence of the music, but the meter didn’t appear to be picking anything up. Moving back to where he’d been standing when the music started proved to have no bearing, either. _The hell?_ he thought, poking at buttons to determine if this was a malfunction of some kind or a form of spirit activity he’d never encountered before. He took out the ear-buds so that he could concentrate better, since the music was swelling and becoming too distracting. He actually staggered a bit in surprise when he found that the music was still audible. Examining the Walkman he noted that sound-waves were visibly rippling against it in pulsating, glimmering colors. He dropped it in surprise gaining the attention of the others upstage.

“What the fuck?” he blurted out.

“Dean?” Sam called, looking at Dean’s puzzled expression. “What’s wrong?”

Dean looked toward Sam and the others, and that’s when he noticed light auras radiating from everything, including Sam. His mouth worked around a series of surprised O’s as he strove to lock onto something recognizable. He glanced from point to point in dazed confusion, as the light warped and stretched, changing its hues as his eyes moved. He stuck the heel of his hands to his eyes and rubbed vigorously. The hangover was still with him, sure, and the entire bag of breakfast he’d scarfed on the way over wasn’t sitting particularly pretty right about now, but this felt—strange. He wouldn’t say it was unpleasant, but he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around what he was seeing and hearing. Holding his hands to his ears, he tested whether he could physically block the sounds but nothing worked. It was as though the music was emanating _from him_. He could literally see it lightly vibrating off of his own arms in shimmering, fractal patterns.

“Hey, man, you ok?” Sam asked with more concern.

Instinctively, Dean started to back away from the strange sensations, trying to get both his bearings and his balance back. A gentle glow of golden light surrounded Sam as he set down the papers and started moving toward Dean, and while rather compelling in a way, it was still disorienting enough that Dean moved back even more abruptly. He watched with growing alarm as the light around Sam changed rapidly from gold to a harsh, clashing red when Sam started shouting something at him. Bewildered, Dean tried to make out what he was yelling about so furiously when he suddenly felt the seasick, heaving jerk of gravity as he took one final, off-kilter step into the orchestra pit below. He could have sworn he actually tasted ozone when a tremendous crack of thunder ripped through his head and violently hurled him into mind-numbing darkness.


	2. Industrial Light And Magic

The same four letters had been uttered by Sam thousands upon thousands of times over the course of his life. The same four letters he’d whispered, barked, laughed, hissed, whined, and chided.  The same four letters he’d ejected through the side of the mouth with his tongue in cheek, expelled along with an exasperated click of clenched teeth, or yammered out along with a Grade-A bitchface.  The same four letters he’d used to both convey and evoke any number of emotions: anger, boredom, humor, pride, impatience, grief or love. This time, however, the same four letters came out as a guttural blast, wrenched from his diaphragm in absolute terror and concern, a version of the same four letters that, sadly, Sam had uttered far too many goddamned times during the course of his short life. 

“DEAN!”

He had seen his brother stagger and glance around him with a mystified expression, putting his hands to his ears as though he were trying to get water out of them. When Sam had gone to see what was up, Dean had unaccountably backed away from him. He had shouted in panicked alarm when he saw that Dean was running out of stage, but his brother had just appeared even more perplexed and off balance, either not hearing or not comprehending his warning. Sam watched horrified as Dean stepped right off the edge of the stage and heard the sharp clatter of stands and stools scattering, followed by a sickening, harsh thud.

With the agility of a base runner hell-bent for home, Sam barreled forward and slid off the stage and onto the floor in one fluid motion, reaching his brother within seconds of his fall.  Dean had ricocheted off the music stands and chairs that cluttered the orchestra-pit and had landed in a graceless pile on the floor, limbs askew and pliant.  One leg remained slobbishly draped over one of the upended orchestra chairs as though he hadn’t a care in the world, as though he’d been making himself right at home.  Sam half expected to see his brother scratch his balls and toss him a grin that suggested he’d just eaten a big old steaming pile.  But there was no scratching, there was no grin.  Dean lay entirely inert.  His head had clearly made solid contact with the hard surface of the floor when he landed, and Sam could see blood saturating his hair and radiating outward in a red, syrupy puddle. 

Cleo thunder-thighed her way down the stairs, a mannish juggernaut of determined salubrious intent, squawking for all the world like a surrogate mother grackle whose chick had just taken a header out of the nest. “We need to call 911!” she rasped breathlessly, her face creasing with distress and worry.  She knelt down clucking her care in little _tsk-tsking_ noises.  Leana caught up to them, palm to her mouth in a shocked expression. She had picked up the makeshift EMF meter from the stage where Dean had dropped it and held it in her hand, studying it curiously.

“Hang on, Cleo.  Wait.” Sam replied quickly. St. Louis was only a few hours west.  He couldn’t take the chance, at least not without trying to get Dean to rouse on his own, first. Sam pressed his fingers to Dean’s neck and, finding a steady pulse, he heaved out a sigh of relief.  He gingerly felt Dean’s limbs and ribs, checking for breaks or other injuries but found none.  His head seemed to have taken the brunt of the fall and upon gently turning it to get a closer look, Sam discovered a large goose-egg at the back of his brother’s skull, from which blood was freely flowing.  Shedding his outer shirt he swathed his brother’s head and applied as much constant pressure as he dared in order to try and stop the bleeding.

 “Sam, I’m calling 911.” Cleo got up and started frisking her ample hips in search of her cell phone.

“No!” he said far more biting than he really intended, hovering over his brother in full protective watchdog mode. “No,” he repeated more calmly and held up a hand trying to fend her off and get his own bearings without having to bare his teeth further. He turned back to his brother and gently smoothed his brow.  “Hey, Dean!” he urged and rapped his brother’s cheek with light staccato taps.  It elicited no response at all. 

“He really needs help, Sam.  You don’t know, he could have had a stroke or something.” Cleo cautioned, referring to Dean’s sudden outburst that had precipitated his fall.  Sam wasn’t even registering her, though. 

“I’ve got it.” He said with his full attention on his brother.  “Just help me get him to the car.  I’ll take him myself,” he said just to get away from these women so that he could think, so that he could just deal with this back at the motel.  Cleo and Sam gently lifted him, Sam cradling his brother’s head with his now blood-soaked shirt.  Leana flitted ahead, grabbed the door, and then trailed after them still holding the EMF meter.

“We’ll meet you at the hospital.” Cleo said as they got Dean situated in the Impala. 

Sam was grabbing for the driver’s door.  “No, no…I got it.  I’ll call you later and let you know he’s OK.”

“Nonsense, Sam!” Cleo said incredulously.  “We’ll be right behind you.”

“No, Cleo.  Seriously.  Dean, uh…he doesn’t like visitors when he’s sick, doesn’t like people, you know, waiting.” Sam was fumbling here and he knew it, but he didn’t have any more time for her well-intentioned shit.  “Look, you stay here.” He took the EMF back from Leana and tossed it in the back seat.  “I promise I’ll call you.  I have to go now, though.”  He slid into the driver’s seat without bothering to listen to another word and pulled out, leaving both Leana and Cleo with their mouths flapping wide.

* *

Sam flung his arm out in attempt to keep his brother from crumpling in a heap against the dash.  He’d had to stop short, having nearly blown a stop sign in his haze.  He’d been talking to his brother, gently shaking him now and again the whole way back to the motel with no response whatsoever, and if Sam didn’t have acid reflux before, he sure as hell was developing it now.  He gently pulled Dean toward him, setting his brother’s head in his lap and draping a firm, protective arm around him as he continued on.  He constantly checked and rechecked Dean’s pulse, which, to his dismay, had increased somewhat.  Clucking his tongue nervously, he alternated between softly stroking his brother’s cool cheek while babbling incessant appeals and dabbing at the blood that flowed unabated.  Sam’s jeans were wet with it. The Impala never moved so slowly. It had been more than half an hour since Dean’s fall, and he still was not coming around.  Anxious and fearful, Sam hit the steering wheel in frustration with one hand and tugged on it with a twisting grip while keeping the other resting lightly on Dean in an attempt to anchor his brother or maybe himself, he wasn’t sure which—probably a little bit of both.   “Come on, Dean.  Please,” he coaxed, but Dean remained motionless. 

When he reached the motel he quickly ran and opened the door to the room and then back to the Impala to collect Dean.  While his brother was a heavy lift, Sam felt a little lighter the moment he kicked the door closed behind him.  At least they were away from prying eyes and well intentioned, but intrusive, helping hands.  He shifted his burden to the nearest bed and laid Dean down with as little jostling as he could.  After grabbing several towels from the bathroom and the first aid kit from the Impala, Sam sat back down on the bed and gently examined his brother.  He rechecked for any other injuries and even lifted his shirt to check for broken ribs or signs of internal bleeding, but beyond some superficial bruising on his shoulder and back, Sam saw nothing out of place or troubling.  Palming Dean’s brow, Sam gently lifted both eyelids.  “Fuck,” he grated out.  Keeping up a front, if only for himself, he cleared his throat and whistled in mock reproach, “Nice saucers there, Morrison.”  Sam shook his head and gripped his brother’s shoulder and squeezed it a little.  “Look what you went and did,” he said trying to sound light.   He sobered, tapped his cheek again.  “Dean, wake up,” he demanded, but Dean had apparently dug his heels in.  “Goddamn it,” he admonished, unable to hide his growing alarm.  He grabbed a fistful of Dean’s shirt and tugged.  “Dean!”  Nothing. Sighing, he shifted his brother on to his side and examined the bleeding goose-egg.  The steady flow had ebbed to a viscid ooze and the blood was clotting, but it was still going to need stitching.  He got the suture kit out and began cleaning and disinfecting the wound. 

He cleared his throat.  “So,” he struck up a one sided conversation while he worked, finding the silence and stillness in Dean to be unbearable.  “I was thinking about what you said last night, man.  And I’m sorry, you know?  I mean, I get it.  You may not think that looking out for me is a waste.  I didn’t mean what I said.  I was being an ass. I do need you to be there for me, man.  I just…the shapeshifter just scared me.  Made me think that maybe you feel cheated, resentful. I don’t want you to think that this is all there is for you.  I don’t want you to have to sacrifice everything you may have wanted for this,” he said looking around the room.  “I don’t want you to have to sacrifice everything for…you know… _for me_.”  He worked steadily, dabbing some seeping blood away as he sewed.  “I’m sorry about the Grad-student, thing, too.  You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.” He smiled genuinely.  “I know, I know, man.  You’d never believe me, but I swear it’s true.  Sharper than a lot of the kids I went to Stanford with, that’s no lie.  And you can downplay it all you want just like you always do, but you don’t fool me, Dean.  I know you.  And that’s the thing, you know?  Knowing you, knowing what you’re _really_ capable of.  I don’t want you to think that protecting us, sacrificing yourself for me or Dad, is the only thing you have to offer.”  He finished the stitches and grabbed a moist cloth to dab the rest of the blood away then wiped his own hands.  “I just wanted you to know that.”  He checked Dean’s pulse again, it was still a bit fast but not any worse, and as the bleeding had stopped he felt a little more encouraged. Sam let out a short sigh of gratitude for that, at least. “So, we good, Dean?” he said as he searched his brother’s slack features and pretended to find the absolution he sought.  “That’s good, man. Thanks.”  He’d bought into his own delusion. 

He looked at the clock.  It’d been close to an hour, now, and his stomach was starting to pretzel in on itself, sick with dread.  Sam sat with his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his hands through his hair repeatedly, twisting and braiding his fingers into the locks at the base of his neck.  If something was seriously wrong, he was just wasting precious time. The thought nauseated him. He looked back at his brother with mounting care and doubt.  “I really need you to open your goddamned eyes, Dean.” He took his brother’s hand in his own and gripped tightly. 

“Dean.”   

But Dean refused to budge.  

* *

Dean’s consciousness teetered, swayed briefly, and then doubled back abruptly, taking a tottering stumble into inchoate awareness.  Dazed, his mind lay sprawled out, exhausted and ungainly in its attempt to recenter with no particular notion of up or down, side to side.  A wistful melody, accompanied by a corresponding aurora of multicolored lights, oscillated through his skull and lapped against his amorphous brain.  He floated embryonically as sound and color corkscrewed and contorted into a singularity.  With no reference point to grasp hold of, his equilibrium tilted and swirled as his involuntary reflexes took over.  His body lurched of its own volition, and he began to gurgle and choke on the vomit that suddenly welled in his throat.   When a pair of hands gripped him he could hear a corresponding sound, a chime, much like the lightly tinkling glass-beads of a chandelier.  The chime turned him onto his side, firm yet tender, rubbing his back in gentle circles.  The touch set off a shower of sunrise-yellow sparks pinwheeling through his head, beautiful, disorienting.  With a heaving pitch, he heard the contents of his stomach paint the outside of the garbage can. Thoughts finally started to coalesce, _Well, this just fuckin’ sucks!_ being the most predominate at the moment.

Dimly he perceived light-waves emanating from a muffled voice, vibrant colors undulated over him and splashed across his titillated tongue.  _You with me, man?_  The kaleidoscopic voice tasted like a mildly tart summer pie.  “Uhn-n-n P’ches?” he murmured as he numbly pushed his tongue into his lower lip, seeking the source of the taste.  All he found was a putrid tang that made him wretch again.  More crystal chimes, more vomit, a cool cloth on his lips and more gentle nudges made up of sparkling, radiant light, _That’s it, Dean…hey, hey c’mon, man.  Open your eyes._   It took several moments of burbling and bobbing like a forlorn buoy clanging amidst his surging awareness before he could even attempt to comply.  Again, the taste of peaches rippled across his tongue as that sunlit, citrus voice, encouraging yet insistent, commanded that he _C’mon, c’mon that’s it, Dean.  Open those lady killers, man...you don’t want to sleep all day, dude._   And, well, he really did like peaches, so he thought he would at least give it a try.  Unfortunately, the moment his eyes flickered and light filtered in, the quiescent sea he’d been drifting in became a turbulent maelstrom of molten light and sound.  Splintering prisms accompanied by a shrieking, cacophonous tabernacle-choir-from-hell shrilled a path down his brainstem, through his spinal cord and tortured their way into each and every raw nerve ending.   Thought froze and his brain shattered as if dipped in liquid nitrogen.  His consciousness skittered head over ass, ending in a very enthusiastic nose-dive back into the senseless dark.

* *

Sam had done everything short of trying to yank his brother out of that dark hole by his tail.  Just as he was contemplating dragging him back out to the Impala and driving him to the nearest hospital, Dean finally stirred.  Aimless eye movements beneath his lids and erratic body twitches precipitated a convulsive lurch, and, immediately, Dean started to aspirate on his vomit.  Sam quickly turned him on his side and got the garbage can as close as he could, as fast as he could.  Wasn’t fast enough, though.  A geyser of vomit erupted and splashed the outside of the can, dribbling slowly down in chunky, gelatinous globs.  Sam swallowed against his own sudden reflexive urge.

“You with me, man?” he soothed, rubbing his brother’s back gently.

Dean lay there limply for a moment and then quite randomly garbled out, “Uhn-n-n P’ches?”

 _Peaches_?  Sam grinned.  Wow.  He’d have to stuff that one in his pocket and save it to play with later once Dean was feeling better.  _Jesus Dean, you always were goddamned adorable when insensible._   That’d have to wait, though.  Dean licked his lips in an odd fashion like he was trying to pinpoint the taste of something but immediately began vomiting again.  Sam held him gently and wiped his mouth after the wave passed.  Drawing slow circles on his back, Sam offered his brother steady encouragement. “That’s it, Dean…hey, hey c’mon, man.  Open your eyes,” he coached.  He could see Dean doing battle with his eyelids, wrestling against their weight.  “C’mon, c’mon that’s it, Dean.  Open those lady killers, man...you don’t want to sleep all day, dude.”  Sam smiled in relief as Dean’s lashes began to flutter. 

 His smile slipped off the side of his face, though, when Dean opened his eyes and abruptly let out a sharp wheezing hiss of abject agony.  His eyes rolled back in his head and his body wracked out a shuddering tremor just before going completely slack.  Sam sat there gaping for a moment, too stunned to do anything else.  A dark, wet stain suddenly appeared on the front of his brother’s jeans and spread out, bringing a lump of fear and pity to Sam’s throat. _Oh God, Dean._ “Hey man, it’s OK.  I got this,” he said passing it off as no big thing. Unconscious or not, Sam felt compelled to cover for his brother, to ease the humiliation that Dean would surely feel if he was aware.  Unbuttoning Dean’s pants, he tugged both jeans and boxers down in one go.  Sam quickly toweled his brother off, rummaged through Dean’s duffel and redressed him in loose sweats.  “See that, dude?  Never happened, man,” he offered with a conspiratorial nod of empathy.  “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”  He quickly collected the soiled garments along with the garbage can and rapidly changed out of his own blood-stained jeans, setting everything to soak in the bathroom. Keeping an eye on Dean, Sam grabbed a clean pair of his own jeans. Sliding them on, he resituated himself on the edge of the bed. 

Sam looked at the clock and massaged his face in anxiety, it’d been well over an hour, now.  He would give this another ten minutes, no more. “That was only round one, dude.  You can do this,” he coaxed.  Sam gently smoothed his brother’s hairline and softly stroked an eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, cooing a stream of nonsensical encouragement all the while.  Just before the deadline, Dean began to resurface with a soft groan.  He twitched feebly.  “Yeah, that’s it, man.  Up and at ‘em, Dean.”  Sam gently patted his brother’s chest and rubbed circles.  Dean’s eyebrows pleated and he did that exploratory gesture of pressing his tongue against his lip that Sam had noticed earlier. 

“You t’st like p’ch pie, dude,” he said sloppily, his eyes closed. 

 _Fuckin’ adorable._ Sam smiled and continued to pat-pat, rub-rub Dean’s sternum.  “I taste like peaches, do I?

“Mmmnn,” Dean affirmed, then paused a moment as his eyes swam under his lids. “W’happ’nd?”

“Don’t you know, Dean?” Sam coaxed.

“Nh-nhuu”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Dean sighed and twitched in deep concentration “Uh, went to s-see dude looks l’k a lady…”

Sam couldn’t help but smile at that. “That’s right, we went to see Cleo. Do you remember what happened?”

“Nhuu-uh.” He sluggishly lifted his hand and extended a finger as though he were tracking something above him. “Fuckin’ r’nbow, dude.”

“You fell and hit your head, man. Remember?”

“I did?”

“Took a tumble right off the stage. Did Steve Tyler proud, man.”

Dean’s brow puckered again, “Whassat m’sic?”

“What music, Dean?” Sam played along.

Dean gave his brother the concussed, closed-lidded version of his pat _what the fuck do you think, dumbass?_ —look.  “The m’sic, dude.  Can’t you h’r it? S’like f’ckn _Fantasia_.  S’pr’tty.  F’ckn colors ev’rywh’r.”

 _OK.  This is different._   Sam chewed a nail. “Dean?”

“Uhnnh-nn, ‘think I took th’brown acid, dude!”  Dean clumsily swirled his hand through the air.  “Makes me w’nna go mud slidin’ in th’ rain an’ lissn’ t’Hendrix, _fuck yeah, dude_!” he slurred, playing a feeble air-guitar, his arms continued to bumble and flail in sing-songy circles and psychedelic waves.  His brain was precessing like a gyroscope, and his body tilted and swayed along with the giddy motion, his arms conducting their own little, trippy orchestra of one.  “C’n taste p’ch pie when you talk, an’ I c’n hear win’ch’ms an’ see a billion lights like li’l spermies swimmin’ wh’n you keep pattin’ me like that.  It’s j’st like…whoaaa… _OZ_ , dude!”  Sam held his breath as Dean strove to open his eyes again.  The moment he did, Dean let out a strangled gasp of pure misery, and Sam watched his brother’s consciousness make a—boot-dragging, vacant-eyed, zombie-walking, _see-ya-the-fuck-later!_ —break for the nearest exit. 

“Whoa-whoa-whoa, hey, hey man.  Stay with me, Dean.”  Sam gripped his brother’s shoulders to try and prevent him from pitching back into the dark.  Dean’s eyes shuttered and he guppy-gulped air while swashbuckling his vertigo and pain as best he could.

“Dn’t feel so g’d, S’mmy. Think I hit m’head or s’mthin’,” Dean said between thrusts and ripostes.

“Yeah, I know Dean,” Sam said gently.  He paused and pinched his lower lip, considering.  He was used to dealing with concussions, they’d both had their fair share. He knew the drill.  But this?  He’d never seen anything like this type of disorientation before.  It unnerved him.  “Hey, Dean,” he said as he watched Dean swim in his confusion, “I think…I think we need to get you to a hospital, dude.”  Dean sighed out his annoyance but voiced no further objection.  And there was nothing more chilling for Sam than that, it was like the blaring-buzz of an alarm heralding a meltdown at a nuclear reactor.  He moved to the head of the bed and shifted his brother into a somewhat sitting position.  Dean was rag-doll pliant in his arms, breathing in shallow huffs like a late trimester Lamaze practitioner. 

Dean remained there for a moment unable to think beyond trying to fend off the stimuli that threatened to maul him with its ear-splintering, crystal-sharp claws. If he could just distract it long enough.  “Fuckin’ throw it a steak or som’thin’! Alw’ys works on S’mmy!” he seethed out in his throes.

 _What the hell is wrong with him?_ Sam was becoming truly terrified.  “What the hell are you talking about, Dean?”

He didn’t answer, couldn’t even remember what he’d said or what he’d been thinking, anyway. Hadn’t quite mastered the high art of hanging onto his thoughts for any meaningful length of time just yet. Merely the simple act of breathing caused billowing sheets of light to pulse dizzyingly behind Dean’s eyes.  “Gonna be sick,” he warned dully.  Sam quickly grabbed the garbage can from the bathroom and set it between his brother’s thighs.  Dean draped his arms around it weakly, using it as an anchor while his diaphragm lurched and then lurched some more.  At this point nothing had come up other than bile, but that didn’t stop his body from digging for pay dirt.  “Fuckin’ orange cymbals all over!” he clashed out between dry heaves.  When the waves finally passed, Sam helped him swing his legs off the side of the bed. 

“Put these on and keep your eyes closed, man.” Sam said, handing him a pair of sunglasses.  “It’s going to be bright out there.”

“Awesome,” Dean huffed.

“You ready for this?” Sam asked, gathering him up and threading his own arms through Dean’s armpits, clasping them firmly behind his back in a bear hug. 

Dean’s head drooped listlessly on his brother’s shoulder.  He drunkenly pshawed and spoke directly into Sam’s neck, “Phfft, s’no sweat, be a walk in the cake, dude.  I goddit.”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Riiight.” He bent his knees and braced, “Here we go, man.”  With a quick thrust he hoisted him up.  Dean immediately groaned out.  His head flopped back and his knees hinged.  Sam battled for balance, straining under the weight of his burden, pivoting until Dean’s head rested back against his neck and shoulder.  Sam held him firm.  “Up, up!” he urged until he could feel Dean’s legs tenuously take back some of the weight.

“Holy mother fucking fuckery fuck!” Dean panted, his lexicon of strong oaths having diminished, apparently, to just the one for the time being.  His vision hadn’t just become ‘spotty,’ it had become a veritable fireworks display on the Fourth of July with seventy-six trombones leading the big, goddamned parade, a squadron of Blue Angels thundering overhead, and a nine-year-old with his first drum-set wailing away for good measure.  “The colors are so loud, dude,” he panted.  “So loud.” he moaned.

“I know, Dean.  I gotcha, man.”  He twisted his fingers, grabbing a fistful of his sweatpants and more than half carried him to the entrance.  Upon opening the door, Dean immediately shrunk into himself, shriveling away from the light that threatened to fling out a tongue and detach his head in one fluid frog-like motion. Even from behind the glasses and closed lids, he quivered violently as the light seared right through his temporal and occipital lobes.  The pain was excruciating.  

Dean put a hand up to cover his glasses, protecting him from the inescapable mosaic of shattering colors and sounds as Sam guided him outside the door.  He tipped and reeled, swaying with the overwhelming onslaught as it crested right over him and sucked him into its treacherously vivid undertow.  He dimly became aware that Sam was speaking to him.  He’d no clue when he began talking or what he’d been saying, but he sure as hell could taste those peaches. 

“You need to get up, Dean!  C’mon, man, work with me!” Sam said gently shaking his brother who had tripped and flailed his way into a prone position on the pavement. _When did I fall?_ Dean wondered. 

“I’m up.” Dean said languidly, not entirely convinced that was even true.  He felt a firm, chiming grip on him followed by a whoosh and a nauseating altitude shift.  He strove to get his legs under him.  “M’up!” Dean slushed, this time with more pride.

“Yeah you are.  Let’s get you to the car.”

By the time Sam had gotten his brother sitting in the passenger’s seat Dean was barely conscious again.  Even protected behind sunglasses, his brother’s eyes couldn’t tolerate the light.  Sam searched the back seat and quickly grabbed one of Dean’s stray shirts, a dark purple-checked flannel, and draped it over his eyes.  “You still with me, man?” Sam asked, gripping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

“Yuhnh,” he uttered, having little energy or cohesive thought for anything else besides holding the wadded shirt against his face.

Sam took what he could get.  “We’ll be there soon, man.” 

“My head h’rts, Sammy. Did I hit it?”

“Yeah, Dean, you did. Hard, man. We’re gonna go get you some help, though.”

“Oh.” Dean said thinly.

“Just hang tight,” Sam soothed as he pulled out of the parking lot.

The sound of his baby’s engine was accompanied by bluish, black plumes of scintillation that coiled and spiraled rhythmically with every beat of Dean’s pulse, superseding the caterwaul.  The vibrations of her song rippled throughout his body, offering shade from the blazing sun and bringing just a bit of soothing, dark clarity to his confusion.  Dean smiled.  “M’baby’s so pr’tty,” he grogged dreamily. “S’like the best m’gic f’ngers ever.”

“Magic Fingers?  Seriously, dude?” Sam chuckled. 

“Hell yeah.  ‘S’why I always loved m’gic f’ngers, man.”  He said with a dopey grin, wiggling his fingers in demonstration. “R’minds me of m’baby’s purr.  Love me some m’gic f’ngers ‘cuz I love m’baby.”  His body started to list limply toward the window.  Sam put out a steadying hand and pulled him back.

“Stay with me, Dean.  C’mon, man.”

“Nh-nuhn.  M’real tired, S’mmy,” he said with childlike petulance.

“I know, man, but you’ve got to keep awake.”  Sam’s heart was loping toward his throat.  “So, your baby’s purr is pretty, huh?” he asked, trying to tether his brother, stake him to the ground.

“Mmm-hmm.” Dean drowsed.

“Well, what does she look like?” he asked.

“L’ke black v’lvet ‘n blue lights, sp’nnin’ ‘n twistin’ sexy…w’th…pr’tty…” Dean tapered off.  He’d either lost the thread of his thought or he’d passed out. 

“Dean?” Sam shook him gently.

“Mmmm.”

“Baby’s engine,” Sam prompted.

“Mmmm?”

“What does she taste like?”

Dean’s breath hitched a moment in thought and he weakly licked his lips.  A sluggish grin crooked the corner of his mouth.  “S’like…” his voice dwindled down to nothing again.

“Like what, Dean?” Sam shook him again.

“She t’stes like th’best ch’sburg’r ever, dude.”  And with that, Sam lost Dean to the darkness again.


	3. Wired For Sound

The life of a Hunter is a pretty rootless existence, there certainly isn’t a lot one can count on. Not that the job doesn’t have its own particular brand of ‘familiar’, of course. For Sam, the exact amount of pressure it takes to detach the head of a ghoul with a machete is familiar. The popping sound that bones make approximately ten-minutes into a salt-and-burn is familiar. The weight and feel of the Taurus in his grip is familiar. And the sights, sounds and smells of a hospital are, unfortunately, extremely familiar. Familiarity is one thing. Comfort is entirely another. This part of the job offers absolutely no comfort. Just the same, Sam knew what he had to do and he swung into action. He pulled into the ambulance bay knowing that after laying on the horn for approximately 18 seconds there would be at least three sets of hands to help get Dean from the car and onto a gurney. He knew exactly what information would be required in order to get Dean the help he needed, and he didn’t hesitate to provide it as soon as hospital staff were pulling his unconscious brother from the car.

“He’s a 26 year old male, blunt-force head trauma from a fall of a height about 6ft off of a stage. He was unconscious for approximately 60 minutes but he’s been in and out of it for the past forty minutes or so.” One of the triage nurses stopped while the others worked on Dean and stood silently listening, taking in the information as he rattled it off. Soon, they were on the move again, wheeling Dean in through the double doors of the ambulance bay. Sam followed along, continuing to fill them in. “He’s not on any medications, but he is allergic to sulfur-based antibiotics. He’s been nauseous, confused and he’s been complaining of light and sound sensitivity, so please be careful of his eyes.” They had reached the ER door and he was held back and told to wait. “His name is Dean!” he called after them. He scrubbed his hair with a shaking hand and took several breaths. His adrenaline was ebbing. “I’ll just go fill out the insurance forms,” he said quietly to the doors that separated him from his brother.

* *

“What’s his name?” The ER physician asked as nurses were working to get monitors and IV’s hooked up.

“Name’s Dean. I didn’t get the last name.” said the nurse who Sam had talked to.

“So what have we got?” he asked. The nurse quickly filled him in on the information that Sam had supplied.

“What the hell is this?” the doctor said incredulously when he noticed that Dean’s gash had been sewn up. The nurse leaned over to take a look, huffed out a snort of disbelief and shrugged her shoulders. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the doctor said derisively and shook his head.

“Nhuhnnh!” Dean interrupted them by moaning out and trying to reach a hand up to shade his closed eyes.

The doctor bent down close to Dean’s face. “Dean, can you hear me?” Dean tried to twist away from the voice so close to his head.

“Go ‘way, too close, dude! F’ckn’ green drums in my ears!” Dean swatted clumsily at the voice. He stopped his movement and made a yucky-face, “An’ you t’st like peas,” he garbled.

The doctor looked to the nurse. “You did say no medications, right?” She shook her head indicating none. “Can you tell me your full name?”

The patient looked confused and, perhaps, a little chagrined. “Uh…” he hemmed. “Dean…somethin’. Better ask m’brother that one. S’on my med card,” he hawed. The ER staff looked more confused than Dean.

“How about the name of The President?”

“Uhn…Bush.

“And today’s date?”

October somethin’, I dun’ have a calendar, dude. Can you pl’s turn out the lights? H’rts m’ears. Music’s too loud.” Dean wheezed out.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “OK, but first I’m going to take a quick look at your eyes, Dean, all right?” He reached out and put his hands on Dean’s forehead.

“F-ff-ffuck no!” Dean immediately came alive and quite literally started heading for the hills. He squirmed and rolled over dragging his IV line as he tried to crawl off the bed while several hands pulled him back and held him down. “Oh hell fuck no! No-no-no, please!” he gasped out, desperately kicking out with his legs to try and get them off of him.

“It’s going to be OK, Dean, it’ll be quick.” Several hands efficiently pinned him down while the doctor clicked his penlight, pried open a lid and flashed it into Dean’s left eye. The moment his penlight hit the pupil, it was as if his patient had been electrocuted. Every muscle seized and Dean let out a wild shriek. With a shuddering sigh, he went completely limp. Once Dean was unresponsive again, the Doctor shone the light several more times and looked a little confused.

“What the hell was that?” The nurse asked.

“Let’s make sure his vitals are stable and then get him down to Imaging for a full work up, and do a tox-screen.” The doctor said. “And call Dr. Liron in for this one.”

* *

This is bullshit, Sam thought. It had been hours with no word. He’d asked for updates several times and had been told the same thing, your brother’s in good hands, they’re still running tests, a doctor will be out to talk to you as soon as possible, why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee and relax?. He ran his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time and prowled the waiting room, constantly on the move. Every hour that passed told him that this was not the usual blow to the head. Dean had had worse, a lot worse, and it had never taken this long to get any goddamned information. Sam kept pacing, stalking, churning, stewing. He felt sick. He was going to be sick. He knew was going to be sick if he didn’t hear anything soon. He put a hand to his stomach and continued his caged dance. When he took another agitated step and turned in his perpetual motion, he nearly ran into a very petite woman in her mid-thirties wearing a physicians’ coat. He stopped short as she nearly dropped her clipboard in surprise at the near collision.

“Sam Berkowitz?” she read the name off the teetering clipboard and looked up with a personable smile.

Sam nodded. “Where’s my brother?” he loomed. His edgy tension was getting the best of him. It radiated off of him in waves, flavoring his stance with intimidation—a habit he’d unconsciously picked up from his father. She seemed immune, however.

“I’m Dr. Rania Liron. I’m the Neurologist who’s been assigned to your brother’s care.” She offered a hand that Sam ignored.

“What’s going on? Where’s Dean? He’s been in there all damn day.”

“Has no one talked to you yet?” she looked a little surprised and immediately set about trying to diffuse his anger.

“No one’s said a goddamned word since I brought him in. What the hell is going on? What’s wrong with Dean?” He was way past frustration. He’d have a pit-bull cowering, but the doctor gently reached up and cupped his arm.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Berkowitz,” she soothed. “Here, let’s at least get in the same time-zone,” she pointed to his considerable height over her and she smiled a warm, dimpled smile. She seemed genuine and open, and Sam found himself complying despite his agitation. She directed him to a private alcove off the general waiting room and closed the door behind her. Showing him to a seat, she pulled up a second chair directly in front of him and sat down, knee to knee. “Dean is stable and awake at the moment, but he’s been in and out more than once since being brought in. He has suffered a concussion, but there’s no fracture and no internal bleeding, and that’s all very good news,” she said. “He’s experiencing some typical symptoms, confusion, photosensitivity, nausea, and some memory loss.”

“Memory loss?” What do you mean?” Sam shifted in his seat, but Dr. Liron held up a hand, trying to prevent unnecessary worry.

“He’s unable to recall his last name or the moments leading up to his fall, and he’s had a bit of short-term memory issues since being admitted, repeating questions, that sort of thing. They’re all fairly normal symptoms and we’ll be monitoring him closely over the next twenty-four hours to see how he progresses. Most of these issues should correct themselves. His photosensitivity has been particularly debilitating for him, though, and we’ll have to be extra careful over the next day or two. Again, this should correct itself, but right now there’s full dilation with very little pupillary response. We’ve put him in a dark environment to make him more comfortable and we’ll be monitoring this as well. We’ll be able to know where we stand in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I’m optimistic that most of the symptoms will take care of themselves, but his body needs time to heal.”

“OK,” said Sam. The last-name problem he was sure he’d be able to cure himself just as soon as he got to speak with Dean alone. He blew out a quick breath, “So he’s going to be all right, then?”

Dr. Liron hesitated slightly. “His reflexes are normal, with the exception of his pupils. I was concerned that he was unconscious for over 30 minutes initially, but his MRI and CT haven’t shown anything inconsistent or unusual, no swelling or bleeding.” She held up her hand. “On paper, he has a text book mild-to-moderate concussion, but he is experiencing a few atypical symptoms that we do need to address.”

“You mean the lights and sounds,” said Sam.

The doctor nodded. “Right,” she said. “And now I need to ask you a few questions, Sam. Is it OK if I call you that?” she gentled her eyes and smiled. She was almost as good as Sam himself at this.

“Sure,” Sam said absently.

“OK, Sam, now has your brother ever been diagnosed with any neurological disorder like Autism or Schizophrenia?”

“What kind of question is that?” Sam blasted. The hell if he’d let them turn this into something like that.

“Sam,” the doctor reached out and touched his arm, she was used to walking on eggshells. “I’m not accusing or assuming anything. But I need to find out what we aren’t dealing with in order to help me pinpoint what we are. The sensory stimuli he’s been experiencing is not normally consistent with a mild concussion, and I want to be sure we are not missing something.”

Sam backed down. “No, no history of anything like that at all. He was fine until he fell. When he woke up he was seeing and hearing things and was unable to tolerate light.”

“Right,” she said. “It’s very common to be very sensitive to light after a head trauma, but this is a little more than that. In fact, I’m not convinced the visual and auditory phenomena are necessarily related to the photosensitivity at all, but the photosensitivity is quite likely making those other, atypical symptoms far more exaggerated and painful than they normally would be.”

“Yeah, he said that he could hear music playing. He also said some odd things…” he trailed off a little, not wanting to play into any notion of mental illness.

“Like what?” She appeared interested rather than judgmental.

“He…he said my voice tasted like peach pie. When we were driving to the hospital he said his car tasted like a hamburger.” He smiled in spite of his worry and stress. Of course the Impala would taste like a cheeseburger. So typically _Dean_. “That’s why I brought him in. He’s had concussions before, but he’s never experienced anything like this.”

Dr. Liron nodded. “Yes, it is a valid concern, and you did right to bring him in. The good news is that we’ve performed a CT and MRI and both have shown no sign of complication beyond the concussion. The Synesthesia your brother is experiencing usually only presents so acutely and spontaneously under certain conditions, such as a stroke, brain tumor or severe brain injury. Even the use of certain psychedelic drugs, like LSD for instance, can cause temporary synesthetic symptoms. But the scans and tox-screen we performed have all come back negative, so it’s a little baffling that he is presenting these symptoms.”

Sam rubbed his forehead anxiously. He could feel his own brain thrumming at this point. “I’m sorry. I am not familiar with ‘Synesthesia’,” he said.

“Synesthesia is a neurological condition. It’s primarily genetic and occurs naturally in a small percentage of the population. I want to distinguish between ‘having’ the condition and ‘suffering’ from it. In most cases Synesthesia poses no problems for those who have it and is quite innocuous. In fact, I, myself, have one of the most common forms of Synesthesia.”

“What is it, exactly?” Sam asked. He was genuinely interested, but he was fidgety and wanted to see Dean. He was hoping she’d be pithy about it.

“Well, researchers think it’s basically extra cross-talk between certain parts of the brain. In basic terms, you have the part of your brain that ‘sees’ and part of your brain that ‘hears’, for instance. If the wiring is routed differently or, perhaps, routed with more connections than normal, the result is that you start ‘hearing colors’ or ‘seeing music’, for example. It’s actually more common than once thought. My own form of Synesthesia enables me to visually see certain conceptual ideas, like days of the week, months of the year, and numbers. In talking with Dean, he appears to be experiencing this in addition to the other forms of sensory Synesthesia.”

Sam looked confused. “Seeing days of the week?”

Dr. Liron smiled. “Let me give you an example. Close your eyes and describe a daisy to me.”

Sam complied, albeit impatiently. “Uh, it has a bright yellow disk-thing surrounded by slim, white petals and a green stem.”

“Ok,” she said. “Now, describe what ‘Tuesday’ looks like.” Sam raised an eyebrow and opened his eyes.

“It doesn’t look like anything. It’s just a word that represents something.”

“Ah, but not to a Synesthete.” The doctor stated. “My ‘Tuesday’ is slim, bright yellow and has a cheerful disposition.” Sam looked hopelessly confused. She laughed and went on, “My ‘Friday’, on the other hand, is tall, dark, and rather imposing—not that I dislike Fridays mind you. I am as happy to see Friday as anyone, but the actual concept has a rather bleak corresponding visual representation in my brain. It’s all quite innocuous. Heck, I never knew for the longest time that others didn’t also see days, months, or numbers. Most Synesthetes don’t even know they have the condition. Your brother’s case, though, is very unusual and I am troubled, not only by the sudden onset in Dean, but with the acute degree of the Synesthesia he is experiencing. Most Synesthetes have one or two forms of the condition. Dean appears to be experiencing all of them, including the more rare forms like lexical/gustatory Synesthesia, the type that allows him to taste sounds.”

Sam rocked back and forth in his chair. “So,” he tried to wrap his brain around it all, “what does any of this really mean?”

Dr. Liron shook her head. “Sam, honestly, I don’t know. They brought me in because your brother suffered a seizure when they tested his pupil reaction. We’ve performed scans for any usual causes but we’ve haven’t found anything there. We’re going to have to do a little more digging and look into any possible neuro-chemical causes, which is why I asked about his history of any neurological disorders. As I said, Synesthesia is harmless, for the most part, but it has been theorized that Autism, for instance, may, in fact, be a more sinister form of Synesthesia. Of course, researchers have only just begun looking into this, but it does at least allow us to understand how such a sudden onset with acute symptoms could be very disorienting for Dean. He’s become agitated and uncomfortable, and who can blame him? His concussion is likely the cause of his photosensitivity, yes, but couple that with the sudden Synesthetic visual and auditory stimulation he’s experiencing and it’s all quite overwhelming for him. It may well be that the symptoms will diminish or disappear entirely as he heals, but we’ve no way to tell just yet. Right now, he needs to heal from the head trauma so that we can see what is a symptom of the concussion and what is, perhaps, another issue entirely.

“I have to go see him. Right now.” Sam demanded as he sprung up. The doctor stopped him.

“Sam, just a minute. Let me ask you this. Are you positive that Dean had no previous symptoms prior to his fall?” Sam looked at her impatiently.

“Of course I’m sure. I told you, he was fine, completely normal until he fell,” Sam said emphatically.

“Well,” she paused in thought, tapping her clipboard with her pen, “your brother remembers nothing beyond arriving at the concert hall. What was he doing before he fell? How did he fall to begin with?”

“We were…he was…” Sam thought and suddenly remembered Dean, his hand to his ears as though trying to get water out of them, stumbling suddenly off balance and backing away from Sam in confusion. “Oh God,” Sam quietly admitted, “he started stumbling and grabbing his head. He looked confused, like he was freaked out about something. I’ve been so worried about his fall that I never gave it another thought.” He was certain he was going to be sick, now. “Dr. Liron, what’s wrong with my brother?” She grazed his arm sympathetically.

“I don’t know, Sam. I know it’s scary, but I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to get to the bottom of this, alright?” Sam nodded, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. “I’m going to let you see Dean now. We’ve got him settled in a room. Right now he needs to get some rest. A few hours ago we gave him some medications for pain, nausea and we gave him a light sedative for his anxiety to help him relax. He’ll be due for some more in just a bit. He’ll be a bit out of it, but it will help him get some sleep. Tomorrow, we can run some more tests and see if we can’t find the source.”

“Thanks Dr. Liron,” he said. He was already walking out the door and down the hall with such quick and long strides that the doctor had to scurry to catch up.

“Sam, wait,” she said as she reached him. “One last thing. Is Dean an artist or musician by chance?” Sam froze in his tracks.

“Why would you ask me that?” he said with a cold dread creeping over him.

“It’s just that, Synesthesia is most commonly associated with heightened creativity. It’s believed that many of the greatest artists in history had Synesthesia: Van Gogh, Edgar Allen Poe, Mozart, and Picasso, just to name a few, were all said to have experienced one or more forms of Synesthesia. Mathematical savants also usually experience Synesthesia, especially between numbers and colors. I just wondered if Dean had creative inclinations. I thought it might be related.”

Sam’s heart plummeted. “He’s not an artist,” he said turning away quickly. “I need to see my brother right now.”

* *

Sam had to let his eyes adjust to the dark before venturing any further into the room. They’d blocked out most of the light, shielding Dean’s sensitive eyes. The only light came from the knobs and switches of the machinery he was hooked to and the soft glow of the streetlights surrounding the hospital that peeked through the edges of the drawn curtains. He approached the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. Dean appeared to be sleeping. Sam stood vigil for a moment and then gently put his hand over his brother’s.

Dean took a deeper breath. “Sammy,” he mumbled but didn’t open his eyes.

Sam smiled. “How’d you know it was me?” he asked sotto voce, very conscious about keeping his voice modulated.

“I’d know those tinkling, yellow sparkles anywhere.” Dean said with quiet, sleepy mischief. “Like a damn pixie, I swear, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam quipped as he quietly pulled a chair close and sat down. “How you doin’ in there, man?”

“It’s a visit to Disneyland,” he croaked out. “Hope it’s just a one-day pass, though. You know music and me have always been lovers, but she’s kinda acting like I forgot an anniversary or something. She’s nagging at me.”

Sam quirked an eye, “The doctor said it may all just go away as you heal over the next couple of days. By the way, you’re name is Dean Berkowitz, dude. At least we can clear up one of your memory problems.” Sam didn’t want to say anything else just yet. His fears were still unsubstantiated. He really needed to do some more digging before he brought it up to Dean. There wasn’t much he could do tonight, though. He just had to watch over his brother and get through until tomorrow. The hours of unrelenting tension had left him extremely spent. He settled into the chair as best he could and let his own eyes close, until a moment later when the door opened quietly and a young, lissom nurse came in to check Dean’s vitals.

“Dean?” she touched him lightly. “My name is Teri, I’m going to be taking care of you tonight, OK, sugar?”

He stirred a little. “OK,” he ventured.

She pulled out a pair of large, dark glasses from her pocket. “I’m going to have to turn on a light for a moment, but I’m going to put these glasses over your eyes. They’re made special, so they should block out all the light. I’ll tell you when I’m turning the light on, and if you feel any pain or discomfort you let me know, all right, sweetie?” She fitted the glasses over his eyes, carefully trying not to jar his head too much, but she made sure the side-flaps were in place so that no light would get through from the side.

“OK,” he tensed up, fearing the worst. Sam rose and stood right next to his brother, ready to shield Dean’s eyes himself if he so much as twitched when the light went on.

“Alright, here we go.” She flipped the switch that turned on the dull florescent light above the bed that was pointed toward the ceiling and didn’t put any direct light on Dean. He didn’t make any movement. “You all right, Dean?”

“Yeah,” he said melting back into the bed. Sam also relaxed but still remained hovering, just in case. Teri smiled and nodded at Sam, a small triumph. She set about switching out his IV and taking his blood-pressure, which Dean squirmed uncomfortably through. Apparently the pressure of the cuff was over stimulating for him, but he was able to grit his teeth through it.

“There you go, darlin’. I’m going to give you something for pain and something to relax you and let you get some sleep.” She emptied a couple of vials into his IV catheter and gently touched his arm. She turned off the light and removed the glasses, setting them on the stand for later when needed. “If you need anything you just press the button, honey.”

“OK, Rosie,” he mushed his way through the morphine.

She chuckled. “My name is Teri, remember, Dean?”

“Yeah, but you’re dark red and soft like a rose, so…” he faltered and grogged out a half-grin.

“Well, you sweet-talker, you,” she beamed. She nodded to Sam and then left quietly.

* *

The persistent music played with Sam’s soft snores and the throb of his own headache, synthesizing the two, creating an inner lava-lamp of colorful splotches that became part of the very Song that he was hearing. It exhilarated and stimulated Dean to…do… _something_. He just wasn’t sure what. Dean watched this dance of light and sound for a long while before he even realized he was awake. His sense of the passage of time had been upended, but he knew it had to be night since Sam was obviously asleep, which night this was, however, was completely unknown. He guessed he was in the hospital from the soft whirring of machinery about him. Right. He’d hit his head. Weirdest concussion ever. He’d been given morphine, but he’d had that several times in the past without ‘Laserium’ being part of the package. He wanted to open his eyes, but the one thing that he remembered with crystal clarity was the agony that action had brought. Curiosity got the better of him, though, so he decided he’d venture a quick peek. Fluttering his eyes as a test, he saw a spike of color but there was no pain this time. He decided he’d try for a longer look, and taking a breath to steady himself he opened his eyes and looked around.

He could tell there were no lights on in the room, but it was anything but dark. Halos and auras emanated from everything his eyes focused on. The act of moving his eyes from one thing to another created an illusion of the light being stretched and pulled along to the next item, often times oscillating with the music and combining with the aura of the new item of focus. It was intensely interesting and, oddly, uplifting. For several minutes Dean amused himself by just roving his eyes around the room. It actually took his breath away when his eyes finally landed on his sleeping brother.

 _Talk about a ‘golden-boy’_ , Dean mused. Sam’s entire body was swathed in a luminescent, crystal-like gold. Any movement of his body sent small, almost imperceptible pulses of light into motion. The raindrop-like light granules quivered with the ever-present music, the harmonic waves of each blending and fusing together in perfect complement. The beauty of it brought a lump to Dean’s throat. He looked away, suddenly at odds with his own poignant response.

Holding out his own arms he studied himself far more academically. His body appeared to have an almost bioluminescent quality, it glowed a rich, vibrant blue with rainbow-colored fractal patterns rippling and riffling in little waves all over his skin, thrumming to the beat of the Song. When he touched another item it sent mild shockwaves of broken light rippling over its surface, his own fractals merging with the aura of whatever he touched.

The Song and the colors touched off a sense of expectation deep within him, a call of sorts, to act or do something that he was either not aware of or could not recall. It sat there, infuriatingly right on the tip of his tongue, a thought just out of reach that he could not seem to grasp. His head started to ache dully with the effort, and the pain began to disrupt the light and sound, drumming against the music and creating an uncomfortable discord. He shut his eyes with a sigh and fumbled for the call button.

Sam never stirred as ‘Rosie’ quietly injected more pain meds into Dean’s catheter and gently shut the door behind her. Within a few moments Dean was adrift on a warm and tranquil ocean of light. Whatever he was supposed to be doing, it could wait until the morning.

* *

“I promise you I am not going to flash any lights unless you give the all clear, Dean. Just let me look at your eyes for a second.” Even full-crocked on morphine, Dean could be a monumental pain in the ass for any member of the medical profession, and Dr. Liron was getting a classic dose.

“Fuck that. No way, sister,” he said emphatically, his pillow smooshed into his head with his hands clasped decisively around it.

“Dean, come on, now. The lights are low and the curtains are drawn. I can barely see as it is,” she chided. “Don’t make me take drastic measures.” He let out a martyred sigh and released his grip on the pillow. Dr. Liron removed it and gently lifted his lids. He winced out of habit, but once he realized the expected pain was not present, he relaxed a little. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Ok, I’m going to try some light, all right?” His heaved out a resigned sigh but didn’t bitch beyond that. She quickly flashed each eye with her penlight, and although he winced each time, he didn’t have the sharp response he had yesterday. “How was that?” she asked.

“Like a 60’s rock concert,” he said, “but nothing like it was yesterday.”

She nodded, “I can even see that you have lovely green eyes, wouldn’t have been able to guess that yesterday. Your pupil dilation has improved. I’m sure that was the source of most of the pain. But you’re still hearing music and seeing colors?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. So, you mind if I check out today?”

Sam had been talking on the phone and had just hung up. “Are you out of your mind, Dean?” he sprung up and shook his head, exasperated.

“Don’t get your fuzz in a bundle, there, Peaches. The Doc says I’m back to normal,” Dean gloated.

Dr. Liron flipped through his chart. “I said your pupil dilation had improved. Not to be a killjoy, but you’re not exactly back to normal. I think you can give me another day or two to see how things improve. I’d like to do a different type of MRI today, if that’s all right. We also need to get some food in you and get you up and moving. So just cool it for today, at the very least, OK?”

Dean looked a little dispirited, but he didn’t argue the point. “Whatever,” he said, leaning back and giving his rapt attention to the walls.

The doctor gave Dean’s blanketed leg a gentle shake. “OK, I’ll order the fMRI for later today and I’ll see you then.” She turned to Sam. “I’ll have some food brought up for him, make sure he eats, and you should also get something. You look like you could use it.” Sam thanked her as she shut the door behind her and then gave his attention back to his brother.

Dean glanced around the room, transfixed. He thought the colors were intense, last night, but they were even more keen and compelling in the light of day. Colors were acting and reacting with the music, and Dean was infinitely fascinated by it all. It made him want to move, to do, to act. It wasn’t until Sam snapped his fingers in front of his face that he was drawn back into a conversation that Sam had been holding up on his own. “Did you hear a thing I just said?”

“Sorry, dude. Was riding the wind, there. Who was on the phone?”

Sam huffed out a breath. “That’s what I was telling you. It was Cleo. She and Leana wanted to come up and see how you were doing, but I told them you were resting and weren’t up to any company today.”

“Thanks, dude. I appreciate it,” he said absently and went back to his spellbound examination of the walls and ceiling. Sam situated himself in the chair and tried to ignore a sharp twinge of worry.

* *

Dean had been just about to ask Sam to talk to him while he ate in order to make the bland oatmeal he was forced to eat a little more palatable, when there was a knock on the door.

Sam had insisted that there was no need for them to trouble themselves in coming up, so of course Cleo and Leana showed up not thirty minutes later with flowers, balloons, and a bag of ‘goodies to pass the time.’

Dean’s spoonful of oatmeal stopped in mid-air. He’d honestly never seen anything like it. Cleo was surrounded by pure, white light that broke off into prisms that twisted and arced off of her like mini sun-flares. As she approached he could see her light interacting with the Song, coiling and frolicking with both Sam’s and his own individual themes.

“I am so glad you are awake and feeling better, Dean,” she sang. “You had us so worried, honey.”

Dean smiled awkwardly, but he could barely take his eyes off of her. Her features were so different now, soft, curvy and very, very feminine. She was really quite lovely to look at. “My h-head’s granite, so no w-worries,” he stammered around the lump in his throat that her beauty induced. She set the flowers and balloons on the windowsill. Handing him the little bag, Dean was dazzled when one of her prism-flares reached out and blended with some of his fractals and pulsated. He almost reached out to touch it.

“There are some puzzle books in case you get bored,” she chirped. She turned to Sam, “And I have those names and information that you asked for, too, Sam.”

“That’s great, Cleo,” Sam said ushering her toward the door, trying to protect Dean’s privacy and cut the visit as short as possible. “Let’s let Dean get his rest and we can talk outside.”

He was successfully able to remove half of the duo. Leana, however, remained behind and approached Dean once Sam and Cleo were gone. “I’m glad you will heal,” she said kindly.

Dean hadn’t noticed her until that moment and was a little taken aback. Leana hadn’t changed at all. There was a hint of the shimmering reflection of all the other auras skirting across her, like sunlight hitting the bottom of a swimming pool, but she seemed to have no source light of her own. And, oddly, now that he was starting to get used to his new perceptions, the mundane in her disoriented him. He rubbed his eyes to try and bring the room back into balance.

She silently watched him a moment, and then a broad and warm smile split her face. Approaching the bed, she handed him a large, slim bag and gave his hand a friendly squeeze. “I’ve brought you a gift. I hope you enjoy it,” she said sweetly.


	4. A Stroke Of Genius

The music brayed—imperious, harsh. Dean ached to capitulate to it, to make things right. To obey. If he only knew how. The colors, patterns, and halos had turned lurid and savage right about the time that Sam had left to walk Cleo and Leana out. Light and sound clashed in melee battle with each other, folding and blending. The resulting mélange lashed out at him, a cobra of liquid radiance coiling and striking at him, ruthless. Endless. It was no longer possible to pacify it, and trying to process a whole roomful of this vivid chatter began to erode his sensibilities. He didn’t know how long he could endure a compulsion that he could not accommodate. It was torturing him. So he pulled back and tried to focus on just one thing to quiet his mind, to keep his thoughts inside his head, to keep him from shattering. Looking down at his hand, he became engrossed in watching the fractals on his skin whiffle and ripple. He held his index finger a couple of inches from his eye and watched the light-waves bend and break off into warbling, mirage-like fractals that radiated outward into his blue aura. Taking his other index finger he tapped the first, causing the Song to reverberate and the prismatic fractals to spin and launch higher into the air. This soothed him for some time, helping to contain his growing anxiety. It prevented the light and the Song from becoming a full stampede. Dean nearly jumped out of his kaleidoscopic skin when a big mitt of gold clove through his peaceful finger-mediation, pulling apart his hands, pressing and holding them down. Sam’s honey colored halo moved into his field of vision.

“Dean, what the hell are you doing?”

* *

Sam had ushered Cleo and Leana out, thanking them for their flowers and gifts. Dean would be sure to put those puzzles and books to good use, he was sure, but right now his brother needed his rest. Of course they could come back another time, maybe. Or better yet Dean would go visit them at the community center in a few days when he was feeling up to it. Yes, that would probably be the best idea. He put the business card that Cleo brought him into his shirt pocket, waved them off, and ran back to Dean’s room to see what he might make of it.

“Dude, you’re not going to believe it.” He waved the small card as he entered Dean’s room. Dean was picking at something on his hand. “I talked to Cleo about the sculptor that died. You know the one whose family requested post-mortem exams and testing…” Sam glanced at Dean, but he hadn’t looked up. “Dude…” He waved the card at him to get his attention, and snapped his fingers. “Dean!”

Dean looked to be in some sort of trance, his eyes were fixed on his index finger that he held loosely in front of his face. He was hypnotically studying it, eyes locked and centered. When he took his other index finger and literally thwacked the dangling one, his eyeballs quivered and jerked as though he were trying to latch onto some rapidly moving target.

“Dean!” Sam husked out, trying not to yell in the hospital, but this rapt behavior was disturbing to watch coming from his normally controlled and rational brother. He grabbed his brother’s hands, held them down and bent close to Dean’s face. He could literally see the lights flicker on and lucidity return as his brother snapped out of whatever altered state he was in. His eyes focused on Sam. “Dean, what the hell are you doing?”

“What the hell, Dude? I’m like a prisoner in solitary, man. Bored as hell. I got to get out of here, Sammy.” He folded his arms and stuck his hands under his armpits in a gesture of childish anger or, perhaps, in an attempt to remove temptation. Sam was betting that the former was just a cover for the latter. “So are they gone?”

Sam guardedly sat down, his own senses were prickling and on high alert. “Yeah, that’s what I was trying to tell you. Cleo gave me the name of that doctor who ran tests on the sculptor after he died.” He handed Dean the card.

Dean took it and strove to focus on the print. He looked at Sam. “Huh. OK, so our next stop is the Twilight Zone?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, what are the odds? I’m going to go talk to her,” he said getting up.

Dean sat up and started pushing off the blankets. “No flyin’ solo, Dude. I’m coming with.”

“You’re a little tied up, Dean,” Sam said of the hardware he was attached to.

Dean reached for the call button. “I’m supposed to be cut loose and get out of bed today, so we can kill two birds, dude.”

* *

One urinary catheter and heart monitor later, Dean was slowly easing his legs onto the floor. It had taken a few moments for the light-headedness to pass after being upright, and he had to ignore the rivers of light that were swirling and eddying as he slowly rose, but he finally managed a few tentative steps. He leaned on his IV pole to help him steady himself, and Sam had a hold of his other arm, steering and orienting him. Dean did his best to ignore the Song as it lashed out stridently. He concentrated on a fixed point about four steps in front of him and, holding on to Sam for dear life, he doggedly walked on. His stomach flopped and he hoped his oatmeal wouldn’t suddenly make a triumphant return.

“You OK?” Sam held on a little tighter, offering to take as much as his brother needed him to. His brother’s gait was now even more tenuous and his expression and attention had dulled.

Dean nodded, but saved his energy for fending off the Song as it pounced on him. He instinctively put his hand to his ear to try and block the sound even though he knew it was futile. Sam was watching his brother intently and decided Dean’d had enough. “Let’s go back to the room, man. We can go talk to her later.”

“No, damn it.” Dean shrugged away from Sam in frustration. He was tired of this literal song-and-dance in his head. It was exhausting him. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

Sam took his arm again and headed toward the elevator. They made it down three floors and took two wrong turns, but they eventually found her office. Dr. Liron looked surprised and concerned when she opened the door.

“Dean, what are you doing here? You should be resting,” she chided but drew him in and set him down. He was swaying and she had to steady him as he sat.

“Sorry, they wanted Dean to get on his feet today, so we decided take a walk down this way.” Sam pulled her card from his breast pocket. “You know, before Dean’s accident we were doing some research with Cleo Harper from The Louisville Artistic Endeavor on the recent deaths of those artists. She said you did a post-mortem examination of Martin McKenney.”

Dr. Liron took the card and looked at it in confusion. “Yes, I examined the body, but I can’t discuss the case with you, Sam.” She handed the card back to him.

“Sure, of course,” he relented. “I just thought it was an interesting coincidence. You know that there have been three other deaths, the last one happened yesterday at the community concert hall. That’s what we were doing, investigating the scene when Dean fell.”

“I did hear about the other deaths, but the families did not request any sort of post-mortem, and since there was no evidence of foul play there wasn’t much anyone could do.”

Dean gave up trying to follow the thread of the conversation. Dr. Liron’s turquoise effervescence swirled out and melded with Sam’s gold creating chakra-like pinwheels that broke away and throbbed deliriously with the piercing music. He couldn’t make out the words for the din, so he just sought solace in his index finger, trying to shut everything out.

“I’m here gathering data for my college thesis on spontaneous savantism. I’m not really aware of any instances that are truly spontaneous, all the information that I’ve gathered has shown that some sort of brain injury was responsible, so I was wondering what had been found with Martin.” His sincere, imploring eyes caught her a little off guard and she softened.

“Well, it was just one of those cases where we only found what it wasn’t. That’s really all I can say. Post-mortem examinations can tell you if the person had a brain tumor, aneurysm, or stroke, but we found nothing of the sort. His dopamine and serotonin levels were abnormally high, but there’s no way to make a diagnosis off of that alone. It’s a lot easier to diagnose a bio-chemical brain disorder with a live brain.”

“I understand,” Sam said a little defeated.

“The University offered to do post-mortems on the other artists that passed away in order to do a comparison study, but we haven’t been given permission from the fam…” She cut herself off and rose quickly from her desk, her eyes wide as they fixed on Dean.

He’d taken no part in the conversation and was now quietly rocking lightly in the chair, strumming his index finger. His irises fluttered with each strike, focused in on some moving objects that were visible only to him. She knelt down by him watching him intently. “Dean?” He made no indication that he heard her. “Dean,” she said more forcefully. “Can you hear me?”

“He was doing that earlier,” Sam twinged in his worry. “Right before we came here.”

Dr. Liron put her hand gently on Dean’s shoulder and shook it just a little. “Dean?” Her touch prompted him to rock a little faster and strum just a little harder, like he was trying to override her, somehow. She reached up and calmly pressed his hands down to his lap and lifted his lids one at a time so that she could look closely at his eyes.

His eyes became ‘present’ again and he focused on the doctor kneeling before him. “What?” he snipped, shrugging her off and withdrawing his wrist as she was taking his pulse. “You should learn to knock before just barging in, you know.”

“I’m sorry about that, Dean,” she mollified him. “What’s happening? Can you tell me what you’re feeling?” She gripped his shoulder and forced him to look her in the eyes.

He glowered for a moment, but then his eyes finally melted into a frustrated plea. “I feel like I have peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth,” he sighed.

“I’m sorry? What?” Dr. Liron said a little baffled.

“It started out good this morning, but it’s too much now, and I can’t swallow it all,” he said sadly. “It’s stuck, and it hurts. I need to stop it somehow, but until I find a way the music and the lights aren’t going to leave me alone.” Sam looked at his brother with horrified pity.

“OK, Dean,” Dr. Liron tried to reassure him. “OK.” She turned to Sam. “Stay here with him a moment. I’m going to get some help and get him down for his fMRI.” She swept out the door.

They didn’t say anything for a few minutes, Sam was lost in his own thoughts and Dean was, well…just lost, Sam supposed. Dean was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, trying not to act out the battle that he was fighting. Sam didn’t know whether he should comfort his brother with a touch or not. He decided against the possibility of making things worse for him physically, so he just tried to soothe him with his voice. “We’ll work this out, Dean,” he said quietly. “We’ll fix this.”

Dean’s heavy sigh was his only tacit reply.

* *

Dr. Liron had told Sam that Dean’s tests would take a couple of hours, so he decided to try and find some answers on his own. The past few hours had convinced him that sitting idle at Dean’s bedside was not going to get his brother the help he truly needed. He called Cleo, and with her help he’d been able to set up a meeting with the dead poet’s fiancé, Calli. He’d swung by the motel for a much needed shower and a shave and was still swallowing a bagel grabbed from the organic bakery as he parked the car at the community center.

Calli was already in Cleo’s office when he arrived.

“How’s our patient doing?” Cleo asked as she drew Sam into her office.

“He’s fine,” he said absently. “I’m going to be heading back there right after this. I just wanted to talk to Calli while Dean was resting.”

“You give him a hug for me. I hope he’s feeling better soon. He’s a beautiful boy, I feel just horrible about what happened.” Cleo brought him over to a young woman who resembled Jessica and was about the same age. He felt the sharp pang as he looked at her young, lovely face. “Sam, darlin’ this is Calli Donne, Alex Peterson’s fiancé. Calli, this is Sam Winchester. He’s visiting from California, doing some research for his Grad studies.”

“Thank you so much for seeing me, Calli. I’m so very, very sorry for your loss.” Sam feigned nothing, her sad eyes elicited a deep sense of compassion in him, and her resemblance touched off his own sorrow. He swallowed it down and refocused as she shook his hand and sat down.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said somewhat coolly, taking her seat. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be for an academic paper, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but I really don’t like talking about Alex as though he were nothing more than some kind of a freak genius. The last week of his life was hardly representative of who he really was.” She looked at her hands and twisted the engagement ring that she still wore.

“I understand that, probably better than you can know, Calli. I’m hoping that somehow we can learn what happened to Alex and prevent it from happening to anyone else.” He offered what consolation he could. He knew it would never make it right.

“If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have even allowed them to sell or publish his poems,” she said, smoothing her pants and adjusting her shirt in an attempt to keep her hands busy. They eventually fisted, though, revealing a despondent fury. “But I was just the ‘fiancé’. I had no legal rights to his work. His sister sold him to the highest bidder.” She shrugged in defeat and shook her head in frustration.

Sam reached out and touched her on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Calli. I know how hard this is for you, believe me. Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me about that week with Alex and how it all started?”

“It was about a month ago.” She took a shaky breath. “He’d been at the center, here, doing an all-day poetry workshop. When he got home he was…I don’t know…out of it. I—I thought he was on something, to be honest. Alex was no choir boy. Sometimes he drank too much, sometimes smoked a little weed. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he wasn’t really making much sense. He was euphoric, ecstatic.”

“Euphoric? How so?” Sam asked.

He was, well, he was _talking_ poetry, if that makes any sense. Said a whole bunch of damn nonsense about some music he was hearing and how I tasted like strawberries. Said he could see my soul bleeding into his and how perfect our blending was. He talked about seeing haloes around everything. I asked him what he’d taken, but he told me nothing.”

Sam shifted uneasily. “He said you tasted like strawberries? Did he mean literally?”

“Hell, I don’t know. He spoke mostly in metaphor and meter from then on out, but he did keep saying something about how he wished he could show me how beautiful our colors danced together with the music.” She ran her hand through her hair and twisted it. “I’m not going to lie. I thought at first that he had some kind of breakdown or something. Later that night he just started writing his poems. The next few days that’s all he did. He wouldn’t even come to bed.”

“Did he describe anything else that he was experiencing?” Sam felt sick inside, but he had to find out where this was all going.

“The next few days were taken up with nothing but writing. He almost seemed like he was in a trance sometimes, and he seemed to get tired and more drained with each passing day. Then, sometimes he would talk almost intimately to someone who wasn’t there. I’d try and get him to take breaks, but anytime he stopped writing he became very agitated the longer he was away from it. I got mad at him and made him spend some time with me, but he couldn’t even concentrate on the movie I’d put in the DVR. He said that everything was too loud, too bright, and he promised me if I would just let him write it out of him, he’d be all right.” She grabbed a tissue from Cleo’s desk. “The next day, his last day, is when I made the mistake of a lifetime.”

“What happened, Calli?” Sam asked.

“I woke up the next morning and Alex was writing, but something had changed. He acted as though he didn’t even know me. He couldn’t remember my name. I thought he was joking at first but then he—he started crying. I didn’t know what to do. I asked him what was wrong, but he just said that the music had stopped. He kept writing, assuring me—assuring himself that he’d get it back. Why didn’t I do something? I knew something was wrong. But, I was confused by his behavior. I was mad at him for neglecting me for the past week. How selfish was that?” Her tears were flowing now, and she was having difficulty getting the words out.

“Easy, Calli. You didn’t know. You were doing your best.” Sam soothed. Cleo mother-henned her way over and draped her soft, doughy arms around the young woman.

“I had to go to work, that morning. I swore to myself if he was the same when I got home that I was going to call a doctor, do something. But when I got home…” She turned into Cleo’s hug and sobbed disconsolately. It was hard for Sam to watch. Her pain was so palpable that he felt his own eyes respond, and he had to blink away her anguish.

“Calli, thank you so much for talking with me. I know it will never make things right, but you have been very helpful.” Sam rose. He’d heard enough, he had to get back to Dean. They were now two days into a nightmare, and he didn’t have much time. “Cleo, do you have a class roster for the seminar that Alex led that week?”

Cleo grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes, snuffling. “I’m not sure,” she dirged and gestured toward her cluttered desk with a drag queen-like flourish. She grabbed another tissue and honked her distress. “Leana can probably get it for you. She said she wasn’t feeling well and took the afternoon off.” She nodded toward Calli who was still tucked under Cleo’s protective wing, indicating that there were other more pressing issues right now. “I can call you later or email it to you, honey.”

“That’ll be fine, thanks Cleo. I better get back to Dean, now. Thank you so much, Calli.” His words fell lamely from his lips. He didn’t know what else he could say to her that would make any sort of difference. He turned to go.

“Wait,” Calli said looking up. “There is one more thing.” She grabbed another tissue. “His poems. People claim that the collection is a masterpiece, but they’re wrong.”

Sam turned. “What do you mean?” he asked.

She stopped and searched for the words. “He was. Alex was. Alex was the masterpiece. He was the magic. I don’t know how to describe it, but those poems… _they were him_. I wish I could verbalize it better. But it’s like Alex put himself, his very essence, into that collection. That’s one of the reasons that I resent his sister selling it off like that. She’s no idea what that collection really means, what it really is. He bled his life out on those pages, and it infuriates me that he’s been reduced to lines of iambic pentameter for just anyone to analyze. To me it marginalizes everything he ever was.”

“I won’t forget that. I promise.” Sam consoled. “I think I’m getting a clear picture.”

* *

“Mike, are we getting anything at all?” Dr. Liron poured over a monitor and muttered out a couple of frustrated consonants. “He keeps moving.” She flipped on the intercom. “Dean, I need you to hold still for us. I know the sound is a little loud, but you need to stop moving.” She could see him twitching his hand and rocking his body lightly from where she was sitting.

“Sedation?” the radiologist offered.

Dr. Liron sighed and chewed on her lip. “I didn’t want to do that. Kind of defeats the purpose of the fMRI, but if we don’t we’re going to get nothing at all.” She thought a moment. “Damn it,” she made up her mind and ordered the sedative.

She released the switch and stopped the procedure and went into the room to check on Dean. He was twitching his fingers against his chest in a perpetual beat. She removed the surface coil covering his head and bent over him, touching his brow lightly. “Dean, can you open your eyes for me a second?” He halfway opened his eyes and started breathing rapidly as his eyes wandered around the room. “Dean, are you in pain at all?”

He shrugged a little, drumming faster. “The music is taking a baseball bat to my head. Hurts. So loud.” He thumped out his pain in unrelenting staccato raps.

“OK, Dean. I’m going to give you something that’ll help you relax. You may feel a little drowsy. I still need you to try and listen to my instructions, though, OK?” She injected the sedative into his IV.

“K,” he said.

A moment later his drum-beats faltered and his rocking stilled. Dr. Liron set his limp arms down by his side. “You still with me, Dean?” she asked.

“Mmmm,” he murmured.

“Dean, can you tell me the name of the President?” she asked.

“Uh…” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “S’Bush,” he mushed.

“That’s good, Dean.” She replaced his head-set and affixed the surface coil back in place, adding foam blocks to help immobilize his head. “We’re going to try this again. Do your best to follow any instructions I give you, OK?”

“K,” he promised.

Dr. Liron went back into the monitoring room and began the procedure. After getting uncorrupted base images for several minutes she turned on the intercom. “Dean, we’re going to start the test now. I’m going to turn on some music that I want you to listen to. Here we go.” She flipped a switch and the music started.

Mike quirked and eye and grinned. “‘O Fortuna’? Really?”

“Hell yeah. The Carmina Burana is one of my favorites.” She stuck her tongue out. “What? It’s stimulating.”

“Uh, I’ll say,” he puzzled, looking at the screen, “I think it just broke the machine, though. This isn’t right.” He started hammering on the keyboard trying to fix the perceived malfunction. Dr. Liron bent over his shoulder and watched the images.

“Jesus Christ!” she gasped.

“This can’t be real,” Mike assured her. “There’s no way.”

She stared wide eyed at the monitor in both awe and quiet concern for several minutes as the music scored through her patient’s brain. “I think it is,” she said in fascination. “Jesus, Dean.” She looked through the window to where her patient lay and her fingertips started their own drum-beat, tapping her lips in uncertainty. “I’m going to have to call in some help on this one. I’m in way over my head, I think.”

* *

Sam entered the room where several people were hovering over his unconscious brother. He noticed that not only had the heart monitor been reattached, they’d also hooked him up to what he guessed was some kind of EEG monitor. Dean looked extremely pale and fragile. Dr. Liron glanced up as he entered.

“What the hell? Dean!” Sam seethed out.

“He’s OK, Sam,” Dr. Liron put her hand up to stop Sam’s charge. She met him halfway and turned to watch the orderlies finish settling Dean. “We completed the fMRI, but the test was extremely stressful for him. I’ve given him something to help him sleep. He should be out the rest of the evening, but he really needs that rest right now, trust me.” The orderlies finished their work and left the doctor alone with the two brothers.

Sam stood by the bed and sighed. He knew now that no one would be able to help Dean here, but he also didn’t want to move him when he’d obviously been through so much and needed the rest. After talking with Calli, he had an inkling of what Dean was going through, and knowing that Dean had no outlet the way Alex did only made him more concerned for his brother. “I’ll fix this, man,” He reached out and cupped his brother’s hand.

Dr. Liron had shut the door behind the orderlies and went to Sam’s side. “Sam, I need to go over the preliminary results of the tests with you. Why don’t you have a seat, there,” she said and pulled up the chair. Sam scrubbed his face and sat down, doubtful that anything that doctor might say would have much bearing. Unless her diagnosis could be salted and burned or wasted with iron or silver, he didn’t have much use for it. But he was tired and worried, so he sat down with a heavy heave.

“Yeah, OK. What did you find?” he asked lamely.

She held a manila folder in her arms and opened it. “These are the results of his fMRI,” she said.

“What’s that?” asked Sam.

“It’s basically a procedure that allows us to observe and record your brother while he ‘thinks’.” She pulled out one of the pages and handed it to Sam. “Here, look at this. This is a normal brain reacting to music.” Sam looked at the printout of a cross section of a brain with some slight red and green coloring in the back portion of the brain. “This is the brain of a Synesthete listening to the same piece of music.” She handed him the next print out, another cross section of a brain with far more red and green in both the mid and back sections of the brain.

“OK,” Sam said with little interest. “So Dean has Synesthesia?”

Dr. Liron hesitated. “That’s not his brain. This is.” She handed him a third printout and watched Sam’s reaction.

“What the fuck?” Sam gaped at the photo. The brain was positively glittering with color, the only thing missing was a fucking star perched on the top branch. There were very few areas that were not pulsating and hot with activity. He weakly handed her the page back, leaned his elbows on his knees and tiredly massaged his own aching head.

“You’re brother’s entire brain is reacting to the music. No one has seen anything like this, Sam. I can’t even say whether it is Synesthesia for sure. It certainly shares the same qualities, but this is like some crazy supernatural version. Synesthesia on steroids.” Sam snorted at her choice of words and continued to stroke his hair. “This is why your brother has been reacting in an almost autistic-like manner. His brain is overwhelmed, and so it tries to counteract or correct the problem by pulling back, narrowing his point of focus in order to help him block out the stimuli. So that explains the incessant tapping, ticking, drumming and touching his fingers, that sort of thing. He’s trying to lessen the impact.” She sifted through several other papers in her folder. “We performed other cognitive tests and the results are off the charts. If the stimuli weren’t so disruptive, if he could focus his thoughts better, he’d be performing at outright genius levels. It’s completely astounding. And all of this was done while he was sedated, no less.” She shook her head like she didn’t quite believe the data, herself.

Sam sighed glumly. “I don’t suppose you can help him, can you?”

“We don’t even know what this is right now, Sam. I’ve made some calls to some of the best neurologists in the country and faxed off the results of the tests to them. I know with absolute certainty that they will all be interested in helping your brother. We’ll do everything that we can. Right now we are going to try and make him as comfortable as we can and do some more testing. I believe both his serotonin and dopamine levels are way too high, and we are going to have to look to getting that under control.”

“Keep him comfortable?” Sam snapped. “Keeping him drugged into unconsciousness is not even remotely close to keeping him comfortable. It’s only keeping _you_ comfortable.” Sam shook his head in frustration.

Dr. Liron stepped back a pace at his outburst. She knew that while this was an incredible opportunity for her to learn and study, it was a nightmare for these two. It humbled her and brought her back to reality. “I understand your concern, Sam, and you’re right, of course. Our first priority is to find a way to help Dean. I promise you. I’m just asking that you be patient and give us some time to figure this out.”

Time was the one thing that Sam didn’t have. That Dean didn’t have. He could clearly hear the tick-tick-tick of the clock as it beat out each and every moment that passed. Every second that ticked away reminded him of the danger. He could hear it, taste it, see it. It overwhelmed his own senses. Just the same, he was a little ashamed for lashing out at Dr. Liron. “Yeah, OK. We’ll try and hang in there,” Sam lied to her. He just needed to give himself some time to do research of his own. “I just want to sit alone with Dean for a while, if that’s all right.”

“Sure Sam. Of course. If you have any questions, call me.” She handed him another card. “I’ve written my own personal cell phone number on the back. Call me if you need anything.” She collected her printouts, and with a nod of sympathetic encouragement she left the room.

Sam sat in the devastating quiet and he tried to crate his anxiety for the time being. He had a job to do. And he didn’t have the luxury of giving into his fear. Nothing would stop him from helping Dean. Nothing. He pulled out his cell phone and unhesitatingly pressed a button.

“Dad? It’s me, Sam. When you get this message, I really need you to call me back. It’s about Dean.”

* *

Sam had spoken to Paster Jim, Caleb and Bobby. He’d given a basic run-down of the case to each of them, but none of them had heard of any creature, supernatural or otherwise, that had that particular M.O. They all promised to help look into it, though, so he had some of the best researchers working on the case. He sat in the soft light of his laptop and went over the names on the class roster that Cleo had emailed him, but they were just names. They meant nothing to him. He had emailed her back and asked for rosters for the community orchestra and the sculpture classes that Martin McKenney had taught so that he could cross-reference any shared participants. It was getting late, though, so he wasn’t sure Cleo would get the email until tomorrow.

He stood and stretched. He’d been sitting for hours. Dean was still asleep. He’d made some twitching movements earlier and had called out Sam’s name once, but he had immediately settled right back down and hadn’t stirred again. That was a few hours ago. Sam watched over Dean for a few minutes but couldn’t stifle a yawn. He stuck the heels of his hands into his eyes and shook the sleep out. He still had a lot to do tonight. Settling himself in the chair, he pulled out the journal from his bag and opened it up, starting at the beginning and rifling through page after page as the seconds, minutes and hours ticked—ticked—ticked away.

* *

Dean opened his eyes to the loud, sunstroked darkness. Sam was asleep with his computer in his lap. Dean felt numb and dumb, but the music and lights were as clamorous and as staggering as they ever were. His dulled mind couldn’t seem to defend itself from their jabs. He lifted his heavy, uncoordinated hands in attempt to fend off the bedlam. His breathing became shallow and tears of frustration and pain trickled into his ears and pooled there. He could even hear the fucking Song reverberating off of them as he strove to bear the next excruciating moment. There was no way he was going to be able to endure any more of this. He felt a surge of pure sickening horror at the thought of another day like today. He pulled himself unsteadily into a sitting position and was about pull out every wire attached to him and try to outrun the blitz, when his hand splayed out and knocked against the bag that Cleo or Leana had brought him earlier that morning. Firework sparks leapt from the bag as he grabbed and pulled it to him, dumping the contents out on his lap. Even in the dark he could clearly see the sketchbook and art pencils they had packed for him to pass the time. _Silly artsy-fartsy people._ He picked up a pencil and flipped open the pad, ready to draw a stick-figure with its middle finger held aloft. Should have gotten him something useful like skin-mags. Maybe that was a little unfair, he thought, but he since he was obviously going insane, he felt quite willing to give himself a pass.

Time literally slowed and the stentorian light and music immediately ceased their shrill screams as they were channeled through the pencil with his very first stroke onto the page. Dean’s world immediately righted itself and sight, sound, taste and touch fused into one harmonious conceit. A sense of peace and well-being thrilled through him as the Song found its way onto the page. He’d finally discovered what the Song had wanted from him, and he was more than willing to oblige. A canorous wave of euphoric comfort rolled over him and he willingly let it sweep him away.


	5. True Colors

The music began as a low, droning hum that surged incrementally until it was coursing from all directions, cresting on a tsunami of light that careened straight toward him. He stood helplessly rooted to the ground, stunned—doe-eyes wide. The wave towered over him and thundered into him, a vibrant, demanding squall of pulsing resonance. His senses capsized as he was dragged along the seabed. The devastating surf tumbled him end over end until his lungs hammered with need, and he was forced to take a long, heaving breath of the liquid strain. Thought ceased for a period of time until he found himself lying dazed in a tide-pool of sonorous, misted color. There was something he was supposed to be doing, he suddenly remembered. He raised himself on wavering, unsteady legs. A clear sense of warning and danger throbbed through every cell in his body. He noticed that his wristwatch had fallen off and was lying in the pool in front of him. When he bent to pick it up, a stream of light swept it away. He followed it closely, trying to pick up his watch, but every time he tried the torrent snatched it back. Soon he was running, gasping for breath as he tried to grab hold of it. With a huge leap he thrust his hand out and caught hold. Drawing it back he could hear the soft tinkling of bells as gold sparks dripped from his hand. He glanced down and found that he hadn’t retrieved his watch after all. In his hand he held a perfectly formed peach.

Sam bolted upright nearly losing his laptop in the process. He flung out a disoriented arm and caught it just before it slipped off his lap. The dream was still reverberating and ping-ponging around his skull, and it took a slow moment for him to remember where he was. His brain downshifted and he rasped out several shaky breaths, blinking owlishly as his eyes focused and he took in his surroundings. With a pang of fear he looked at the bed where his brother had been laying unconscious. He had to rub his eyes to make sure the scene unfolding before him was not still mixed with dream imagery.

Dean was sitting quietly, his knees drawn up supporting a sketchbook that he was placidly absorbed in, like a kid stretched out on his tummy, heels clicking together pouring over a coloring book on a lazy Saturday morning—tongue crooked against his upper-lip as he doodled. He absently scratched at one of the EEG wires attached to his head and looked at Sam.

“Y’kinda woke with a start, there, Tinkerbell. Dreaming of pirates again?” he teased with a winsome grin and then gave his attention back to his drawing.

Sam was speechless for a few beats. “Dude? What the…?” He stood up quickly and watched his brother closely. Aside from the mélange of wires attached to his head and chest making him look like a victim of some twisted science experiment, his brother looked peaceful, relaxed—certainly more present than he had been since his accident. Yet at the same time, this in itself was unsettling. It was off kilter. For one thing, just the sight of his brother so engrossed in a sketchbook was completely contrary to Dean’s normal kinetic nature. Dean doesn’t just sit and draw for fun. There had been that time with Lucas, but that was completely different. “What are you doing, Dean?”

“I’m earning my Scoobie-snack, dude. Doin’ what I’m supposed to,” he said. Noticing Sam’s confusion he shrugged. “I got bored waiting for you to wake up. Cleo and Leana brought me some of their artsy crap, so…” He dusted off the page he was working with and then continued to draw.

“How do you feel?” Sam asked suspiciously.

Dean easily read his brother. “I’m fine, dude, try not to get your girly sparkles in a jingle,” he assured him without a glance. “I feel much better, a little sloppy from whatever the hell they gave me last night and a little headachy, maybe, like I read too long in the dark or something, but that’s about it. I feel pretty damn good, in fact. It’s nice to be able to finally think again.”

“So the music and lights are…”

“Oh, they’re still there, stronger than ever, but they aren’t being bitchy anymore. They’re tryin’ to kiss and make-up with me.” He closed his eyes and leaned back, like one basking in the sun. “Feels like a few shots of Jack in my belly and a pool-cue in my hand.” He smiled and scratched at the same troublesome EEG wire. He sat back up and blew on his paper to scatter the pencil dust.

Sam sat back down and gathered his thoughts. Dean had been out of the loop for a couple days now. He didn’t know exactly how to tell him, or even what to tell him. He cleared his throat. “Dean…,” he began.

“Yeah, Dew-drop. I think I got the memo. It’s not just a concussion.” Dean looked up and sighed but went right back to his drawing. He nodded his head toward the page he was working on. “So I figure, we got, what…a little over four days or so before my drawings suddenly appreciate in value?

“Sorry, Dean. We’ll figure it out. I put in calls to Jim, Caleb and Bobby. They’re all working on it.” He wasn’t going to mention calling Dad, no sense in making things worse for his brother, since, as expected, there had been no response. “I spent all last night going through the journal, but I couldn’t find anything.” Sam stood up and approached the bed. He tried to get a look at what Dean was working on, but his brother blocked his view.

“Hey, no peekin’ until it’s done, dude.” Dean shooed him away with his hand and didn’t relax back into his work until Sam had backed off. “’Sides, I need to get some colored pencils or something. This isn’t really getting the job done.” He glanced up at Sam who was wearing his worry and concern like one of Cleo’s loud, flamboyant shirts. “Don’t look at me like that, dude.” Dean chided. “I’m all right.”

“Yeah, sure you are,” Sam said, dubiously. “Well, we have to figure out what we’re going to do. One thing’s for sure, there isn’t anything they are going to be able to do for us here. We probably need to clear out of here as soon as you feel up to it.”

Without missing a beat Dean snapped his book shut and tossed his pencil on it. He started to peel off the heart monitor and EEG pads with a cocky grin. He didn’t have to be told twice. He nodded toward the small closet. “Grab my clothes for me, dude.”

Roughly thirty seconds later a frazzled, wide-eyed nurse threw open the door. As soon as she realized her patient wasn’t in some apparent life-or-death struggle she scolded, “What’s going on here? Dean, what are you doing?”

“I’m pullin’ up stakes, sweetheart,” he said, unraveling the tape from his IV catheter. “So, get whatever papers I need to sign and we’ll be on our way.” She stood goggling for a few seconds before she spun around and left the room, clearly on a mission.

“You know she’s gone to make some calls,” Sam warned, tossing Dean a clear plastic bag with the clothes he arrived in.

“Yeah, probably.” He winced as he pulled out the IV line and pressed the pad of his thumb against the crook of his arm until the light trickle of blood stopped.

By the time he had finished getting dressed he was agitated and fidgety. He grabbed the small bag that held his amulet, ring and bracelet, but his hands trembled as he put the items on. He hadn’t been given much more than five minutes of freedom before the confluence of light and sound shrilled malicious threats at him and his thoughts began to cloud. Breathe. He was breathing through it. It’s all he could remember to do. He could breathe—and taste peaches.

“Dean, man, sit down.” Sam had noticed his brother start to pitch unsteadily. He reached out a hand to steady him and guided him to the chair, sitting him down. Dean appeared to have withdrawn into himself again. “Dean, hey, hey, hey!” he snapped his fingers in front of his face and tapped his cheek.

Dean groaned and put his head in his hands. “Loud!” he jittered. “Too loud and bright, Sammy.”

Remembering Calli’s description of Alex when she had asked him to stop writing, Sam grabbed the sketchbook and pencil off of the bed, flipped it open to a random blank page and handed it to Dean. “Here, Dean.” He put the pencil in his brother’s hand. Dean’s breathing began to even out as soon as he resumed drawing. “You OK, now?”

“Actually, I think I’m pretty well fucked, Sammy. This sucks so loud,” he said, sourly. His pencil jabbed at the paper in frustration, but after a minute or so his breathing leveled out and his face became almost serene. Sam watched his brother nod his head as though he were engaged in a conversation that Sam couldn’t hear. “I’m good now,” Dean said with a hint of a smile at some secret pleasure.

Sam was just about to offer his brother words of encouragement that he knew would not even remotely help when the door swung open and Dr. Liron came in. “Dean? What’s going on?” She approached tentatively and made a pointed effort to sound calm and soothing, like she was trying to talk a volatile jumper off a high-rise ledge. “Everything all right?”

Dean didn’t look up. “I’m fine. I’m just bustin’ out. Sam’s gonna look after me.”

Dr. Liron looked at Sam in surprised confusion, expecting backup that he didn’t provide. She looked back to her patient. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dean.” She bent down as though to examine him, but he got up and stepped away from her.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m feeling much better, though. Really. I’ll just sign the papers and be on my way.” He leaned against the wall and flipped open his sketch pad, stealing a few scribbles as nonchalantly as he could.

Dr. Liron watched him with incredulity for a moment and then turned to Sam. “Can I talk to you outside, please?”

Sam shook his head, “That’s not going to be necessary. I completely understand your concern, but we really need to go. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything you can do to help him here, anyway. No one even knows what this is.”

Dr. Liron gaped at him, “That’s not true, Sam,” she defended. “We may not know what’s causing this yet, but there are drugs and treatments that we could try. You just have to give us some time.”

Sam spoke poised but left no room for debate. “For now we’re just going to try and get him some rest. He doesn’t do well in hospitals, so I’m going to take him home. I promise you if anything happens or he starts to feel worse, I’ll call you and bring him right back in.” He pulled out the card that she’d given him yesterday as evidence.

She stood there for a moment and then pinched the bridge of her nose, unable to process what she was hearing. Eventually her shoulders collapsed in defeat. She shook her head in disbelief. “All right,” she said, her disappointment and concern apparent. “I’ll get you the AMA forms. I really think this is a huge mistake, though. Call me if there is any change.”

* *

Dean Winchester was far from perfect. Fact of the matter is he could be a stubborn ass at times. When they were children, Dean had won every single staring contest he and Sam had ever had, and they’d had plenty. Sharing close quarters in dumpy motels throughout their childhood often provided fuel for out-and-out, eyeball to eyeball— _made you blink, dude!—_ wars. Sometimes it’s just a matter of pride, though. Like right now, and he was spoiling for a fight. It wasn’t being told that the sketchbook was not enough any more, it was being given no other choice. It was being forced or coerced. Dean Winchester never did well with ultimatums.

He took another long pull on his beer and tried to settle back down with his sketchpad, ignoring the command and the nasty turn the Song had abruptly taken. Sam had left him hours ago. He’d wanted to pick up some class rosters from Cleo and do some research at the library, try and see if they’d missed any other deaths, find some link, because Sam hadn’t found shit yet, and time was ticking away.

He finished off his beer and cracked another one. He was feeling twitchy again. He knew the piece he was working on wasn’t right, but he’d be damned if he was going to just give in. Something was using the Song, using it to demand color and better texture. He drank six consecutive beers—or was it ten? He’d lost count—to try and get it to back the hell off, but no such luck. He was drunk as hell, but it didn’t stop the brutal attack. He tried to outlast it, though. He drank long and deep and felt the alcohol pull him in one direction and the Song in the other. The pain was unrelenting now, a bully pinning his arm behind him and cruelly twisting it with sadistic pleasure until Dean cried out.

“Fuck!” he seethed at it. “Leave m’lone, y’fucker.” He threw the sketchpad against the wall. His hands balled into fists and he pounded them against his head in frustration a few times, causing sharp, agonizing spikes to shoot through his still concussed skull. “Nnraarghh!” he moaned in pain and humiliation. It took a moment for his thoughts to rise above the ache. He was going to have to blink this time. For the first time. “Goddamn it!” He stifled another groan as he capitulated and rose to go do what he was told.

The moment he made his decision and stood the room quieted and the light mellowed. A soft, melodic drone mesmerized him, rewarding him with a soft, blissful euphoria that swept over him. His mind tilted and flit in random directions as a warm blanket of delirium spread over him, tucking in its edges and offering a soft, downy pillow of contentment. _See?_ It cooed. This wasn’t such a bad thing, if only he would be good and do what was asked. Dean could do that. He promised to be very good from now on. He opened the door and stared right into the afternoon sun, allowing it to fuse with the Song and sear right through him until his eyes were too dazzled and his mind too captivated to really be aware of his surroundings. Didn’t matter though. The Song held him firm, and he began to weave and bobble in the direction he was ordered to go.

* *

“Fuck!” Sam fumed under his breath. He wanted to shout, but he was keenly aware of his surroundings. He’d been searching back obituaries in the library for hours with nothing to show for it, finding no other connections, no other links to provide him with any clue as to what he was dealing with. The day was wearing away, and he had precious few of those left. His hands clenched into fists at his side. He had to get back to Dean soon, but he couldn’t bear not being able to bring any news with him. Couldn’t bear not bringing any hope. He had just turned the microfiche off with an angry snap when his cell phone went off. It was Caleb.

“Caleb, man, it’s good to hear from you. You got anything?” Sam breathed out, trying to talk low but unable to mask his urgency and need.

“Been in contact with Jim and Bobby and we all agree on what we think you’re dealing with. Does the name W.B. Yeats ring any bells?” Caleb asked.

“The poet?” Sam tiredly washed his face with his hand and massaged the back of his neck.

“Yep,” Caleb said.

“I think I read a few of his poems in college, but I can’t tell you anything beyond that. What’s he got to do with this?” Sam wanted to know.

“W.B. Yeats was a great poet, but he was also an occultist. Bet you‘ll never guess what kind of supernatural creature he wrote about,” Caleb prompted.

“I’m guessing it was something that turned people into some kind of artistic genius, right?” Sam offered.

“Something like that. Doesn’t sound like he ever personally had a run-in with her, but he wrote about the _Dark Muse_ ,” Caleb said.

“A Muse?” Sam hooted. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“A _Dark_ Muse. And they’re seriously fucking bad news.”

* *

She’d been out running errands and couldn’t believe her eyes, or her luck. It was him, alright. He seemed preoccupied and a little unsteady, like he’d had a few too many, but it was definitely him. She felt a wave of excitement and a flush down deep as he approached.

“Well if it isn’t Green-eyes!” She beamed at him as he approached, but he didn’t seem to take any note of her at all and weaved on past. Her stomach flopped in embarrassment at that, but she rarely took no for an answer, so she wasn’t about to let a non-answer slow her down, either. She reached out and caught his arm. “Hey there!” She latched on and smiled as he spun around and stumbled into her. The smell of alcohol was intense. Wow. And it was only three in the afternoon.

He stood there tottering and bobbling, looking at her with vague confusion for a moment. It didn’t appear that he recognized her at all, but he tried to pass it off. “Heyyy swee’heart,” he drawled lazily, looking her up and down.

“Hey yourself,” she said a little put off by his drunken leer. God, he was lovely, but this boy was one sloppy mess. “Don’t you remember?” Nope, apparently from his vacant expression, not even a spark. “You know, from the bar the other night? Back seat of your car?” Mel prompted.

“Ohhhh heyyy I ‘member you, darlin’, sure. Didn’t recognize you w’your sexy red n’silver swirls everywhere.” He waved a couple of heavy hands, mimicking her general womanly shape. “S’nice. Silver, sparkling, twisty things. You’re pretty.” He gave her a lazy grin and lurched into her for a kiss. She could taste the beer on him. Holy hell he was drunker than Cooter Brown, but Jesus if his lips weren’t too hot not to lollypop just a little. He suddenly broke off the embrace as though he’d been struck. He touched his hand to his head as though in some kind of pain and waved her off. “Godda go,” he said and shoved off.

“What? Why? Are you OK?” she pulled him back. He didn’t look very well. As much as she wouldn’t mind a mid-day hook up, she didn’t want him passing out on top of her, either.

“M’fine,” he said, sluggishly. “Godda go. I promised to be good. Godda get some stuff. S’important,” he said and tottered on his way, leaving one rather confused ex-fling in his wake.

* *

“OK. A Dark Muse,” Sam said. “So what kind of creature is that exactly?”

“Well, they are an extremely powerful type of succubus, we’re talking the demigod, industrial strength kind. Extremely rare, only nine are known to have ever existed. They’ve also been confused with vampires from time to time given at they’re ‘drainers’, but they are much worse,” Caleb explained.

“So is this thing corporeal or are we talking a spirit of some sort?” Sam asked.

“Not sure entirely, but they are always in human form when they interact with people and feed off of them. It can take the form of a man or a woman, but since all of your victims have been male, we’re probably dealing with a female. They like to use seduction as a tool. Basically she opens a link between the victim and herself. She fills him with a creative obsession, then feeds off of the very energy that fuels the creation. W.B. Yeats believed this energy to be one’s very life-force.”

“Jesus!” Sam hissed. “So what if the target just refuses to do it?”

“There’s been some that tried, but the bitch is ruthlessly persuasive. For the folks that try to withstand her, the result is insanity—the kind you don’t come back from, and in the end, they still succumb to their Muse anyway, they just go batshit crazy to boot. Makes you wonder about all the fucked-in-the-head artists throughout time. Her powers of seduction are extremely strong, though, so fight her or not, the end result is the same. Everyone acts upon their creative compulsion and eventually wastes away only to die in a despondent state once their creative force or life force is spent. But your Muse seems to be amping up her game. Dark Muses can often times spend years with their victims. I’m not sure if this means that she’s weakening and needs to feed more often or if she’s just a greedy bitch. In any case, your victims have been consumed within a week or thereabouts, so you are going to have to find her and waste her, and that, Sam, is something we haven’t quite worked out yet. This is a demigod of sorts, so our usual bag of tricks isn’t going to be of much help. Bobby is working on finding a revealing spell that will work on her, and Jim and I are looking into a way to take her out. You just need to hang tight, do what research you can, and take care of Dean.

Sam tried to take it all in. “So, what…how does she do this? If she’s in human form, did she have to have physical contact with him? He’s only been around a few people since we arrived.” He was making a mental list. Cleo, Leana, whoever he had hooked up with at the bar, and a bunch faceless women at the poetry reading. He felt sick. Cleo and Leana are the ones who brought Dean the sketchbook. He was pretty sure he had the field narrowed down to just two.

“I’m not completely sure, Sam. It might be. In any case, you don’t want to be provoking her without a means to fight her. She can only compel or attach to one person at a time, but she’s still extremely dangerous. She doesn’t need any weapons to fuck you up. We’ll find a way to pinpoint her and take her out. Until then, you need to stay close to Dean. A Dark Muse has the ability to make the process either exceedingly agonizing or intensely euphoric, depending. Both are equally lethal.”

Sam could feel his heart laboring. He never felt more powerless. Knowing what Dean was facing made every nerve tingle with fury and fear. “Jesus,” he said flatly. He sighed. “OK, thanks man.”

“No problem. Sam, we’re gonna get this done,” Caleb offered his friend what reassurance he could. “Just another day at the office, right?”

“Hey, Caleb,” Sam dreaded asking, but he just couldn’t resist. “Has Dad contacted you at all?”

Caleb cleared his throat. “No, Sam,” he said honestly. “I haven’t heard from John in months. Do you want me to try and call him?”

“No,” Sam sighed. “I already tried. I’m sure he’ll call me back when he can.” Sam could taste the shit he was shoveling.

“OK, Sam. I’ll be in touch. Everything’s going to be all right, y’hear?” With that, the hunter hung up.

Sam snapped his phone shut feeling anything but reassured. “Fuck!” he belted out in the middle of the library.

* *

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam opened the door to find his brother with an easel, paints, brushes, the entire damn artistic works. Dean popped his head up from behind the canvas he was engrossed in.

“Hey,” Dean casually greeted Sam like nothing was out of the norm. He grabbed an open beer and drank half of it down in one go. “Needed some color, dude, so I went to that art supply shop around the corner. Check it out,” he said holding up a palette and brush. “I’m like fuckin’ Van Gogh!”

“Jesus, Dean. How much did this cost?” Sam set the bags of food he had brought on the table.

“Nothin’. It’s all compliments of the Aframian household. Think that just about cleans out that particular estate.” Dean cackled and spun his paintbrush in his hand like a drumstick. “S’all good, man. Relax.”

Sam pointed to the bags. “Stop what you’re doing for a few and come and eat. Have you had anything at all today?”

“Not hungry, Sammy.” Dean went back to his work.

“Doesn’t matter, Dean. You’re still going to eat.” His brother was drunk. He noticed a damn near case-worth of empty bottles scattered around his work area. Sam shed his jacket and sat down and pulled out the boxes of Chinese food he’d bought. “Caleb called. He thinks he knows what we’re dealing with.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean stopped in mid-brushstroke. “What is it?”

“I’ll fill you in while you eat,” Sam bargained. Dean glared at him for a moment, but then wiped off his brush, grabbed his beer and haughtily slumped himself at the table. His depth perception was shot from all the beer, though, and he hit the chair before he had braced for impact, causing him to blink and burble in surprise. He sluggishly grabbed the chicken kung pao.

“Dude, how much have you had to drink? You just got out of the hospital, what the hell are you thinking?” Sam pestered.

“So what is it?” Dean asked around a mouthful of food, completely ignoring his question.

“Caleb says it’s a Dark Muse,” Sam said.

“A what? You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” Dean finished off his beer and moved to get back up, but Sam pushed him back down and shoved the food carton at him.

“That was pretty much my reaction, but Caleb says they’re the real deal. Powerful, like a damn demigod. Rare, too, apparently. She’s a type of succubus that endows her victims with intense creative abilities but drains them of their life-force at the same time,” he said. Sam grabbed a pair of chopsticks and a carton.

Dean snatched up his kung pao carton, got up and grabbed another beer. He popped the top with his ring and leaned against the counter. “Good times,” he snarked. “Sounds ‘bout right,” he added, and Sam wondered if he was already speaking from experience. “So, what’s next? We know who she is and where?”

“No, but I’m betting we won’t have to look too far. The two people we’ve had the most contact with are Cleo and Leana. I’m betting on it being one of them,” Sam said.

“I find it hard to believe that it could be one of them. It can’t be Cleo, I’m sure of that, anyway.” Dean tipped the bottle to his mouth for a long pull.

“What makes you say that?” Sam asked. He had no trust for either one of them at this point.

Dean shrugged and appeared a little sheepish. “She’s too beautiful. She can’t be evil.”

Sam stared at his brother and raised his eyes in dumbfounded amazement. “Beautiful? Dude, are you blind?”

“I dunno, Sam. You can’t see her the w-way I do,” he fumbled bashfully. “She’s shines like crystal with all these…” he seemed embarrassed, “all these fuckin’ rainbows comin’ out of her. She’s pretty. You know…her light,” he struggled to find the words. “It’s, I don’t know, it’s _pure_.” He looked away sheepishly and took another long drink.

Sam remained suspicious. “Well, I don’t think a Muse would appear to you like a hag. She’s a type of succubus, dude. They seduce their victims. And, no offense, but you look pretty seduced to me,” Sam said.

Dean tossed his empty bottle, grabbed another and moved back to his canvas and shrugged. “Maybe,” he conceded. “We have a way t’waste her?”

“Caleb and Jim are working on that. Bobby’s looking for a way to pinpoint who she is. Caleb says not to try and poke her until we have a way to kill her, though. Demigod powers are a little out of our league.”

“Awesome,” Dean huffed. He squeezed out more paint onto his palette and resumed his work. “And we only have a few days left. Should be easy,” he said, sardonically.

Sam snorted and opened a beer for himself and got his laptop out and settled in for a night of research. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

Dean sighed, “I feel fine, Sam. Quit worrying.” He made a few sweeping strokes onto the canvas. “Hope I don’t run out of canvas before the shop opens tomorrow, though.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, you’re perfectly fine.”

* *

Sunlight pooled its way across the bed and dripped into Sam’s eyes. He winced away from the saturation and rolled over onto his stomach. He could hear movement about the room, so Dean was already up if he had slept at all. Sam blinked into his pillow and fumbled a hand up to his eye to scrape away the glue painting the rims of his eyes. “What time is it?” Sam asked as he levered up on his arms and turned to look at Dean.

If Dean had made an answer, Sam certainly never heard it. Sam’s jaw plummeted several stories as he slowly, quietly, dumbfoundedly took in the scene before him. He numbly rose to his feet and stood as still as stone. His brother definitely had not slept.

Dean’s painting, having outgrown its canvas had bled, bubbled over, up, and across the far wall in a large mural.  How many seconds or minutes Sam stood utterly speechless, he’d no clue.  It wasn’t for lack of trying to get his mouth and brain to connect, though.  His mouth worked soundlessly as he strove to take it all in. 

The art-history student in him would, perhaps, have known what the sterile critics might have said about it: the texture of Van Gogh with the color sense of Matisse.  Picasso’s restlessness and Monet’s perception.  Yes.  All of that, yes.  But Calli had been right.  It was far beyond any of that.  It wasn’t merely color, form and symmetry.  It wasn’t even truth and light, pain and despair, the Sistine Chapel on a motel wall.  Wasn’t just the fucking Glittering Caves of Aglarond or Mozart’s Dies Irae.  It wasn’t a Masterpiece. It was _Dean_. Basal and innate.  Jesus, he’d never seen anything like it.  Dean—his walking, talking understated hyperbole of a brother, ineffable and familiar.  The pariah who could charm his way into and out of just about anywhere. The provincial sophisticate.  The painting was the Song in his head, and the Song was Dean’s life chanted in tones of Alizarin-crimson and Prussian-blue.  Sam recognized most of it.  Hell, he could have hummed along: a bass-line of ungrudging sacrifice, a melody of unyielding devotion, and harmonies of crushing responsibility.  Prismatic splashes of his own complex fractals created sunshine in the starry fucking night.  Zeppelin in a pool hall.  Sex in a cathedral. And there were aching strains of heartbreak that Sam had not shared, could not know about, because for four long years he’d refused to pick up the phone no matter how many times it rang.  Until the ringing stopped.  This Song was louder than the Shapeshifter’s but shared a common theme,  _I know I’m a freak.  And sooner or later, everybody’s gonna leave me._  Sam didn’t have to be a Synesthete to see the quiet crescendo, to taste the gentle violence or to hear the tranquil maelstrom that was his brother. 

And it was _beautiful_.  Breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

It was beyond words or fucking Songs. The Shapeshifter spoke again, _Your brother’s got a lot of good qualities.  You should appreciate him more than you do._   No shit.  Sam’s heart leapt at the privilege of seeing those qualities but then tumbled with the undeniable certainty that no invitation had been extended here. This wasn’t meant for him to see, unless perhaps piecemeal and only on his brother’s terms and in his own time. This had been ripped out of him, a violation, and Sam knew he had no right to be there.  He lowered his greedy eyes.  _Jesus, Dean._

Dean stood facing him, covered head to toe in rainbow spackles and smears. A beer in hand, he silently regarded Sam through half-closed eyes.   He looked pinched and wrung, unshaven and unsteady.  Oblivious to the monument behind him.  Sam’s voice returned along with a sudden pang of concern at how truly wrecked his brother looked. _“Holy mother fucking fuckery fuck!”_ Sam garbled out.

Dean weaved and adjusted, striving to keep his balance.  He took another sip of beer with deliberate nonchalance.  “Think the well could run dry soon, Sammy,” he shrugged just before his eyes rolled back in his head and he spiraled downward, a snapped twine coiling to the floor.


	6. Strumming My Pain

Something was terribly wrong with his brother. Sammy’s beautiful, golden shimmer had deadened to a murky brown, and his usual ice crystal dew-drops were dripping cheerlessly in dull, inky beads. It made Dean’s heart ache with sadness. It was all wrong. Sammy should never be without the sun. He thought hard about it for a long moment. He’d fix it. He’d make his brother right again. Dean tried to reach up, tried to touch his brother’s head in a reassuring gesture. He wanted to let Sam know that he would do anything he had to do to make him shine again, but his arm just wouldn’t obey properly for some reason, and it flopped against his brother’s ear in more of a clumsy thwack than the intended caress. Sam grabbed his arm and held it to his heart. Dean was perplexed by his brother’s strange expression. It was both anguished and demanding, and he sure had a lot to say, apparently. Dean could see Sam talking at him a mile a minute with desperate urgency, but he couldn’t make out a word for the throbbing clamor in his head. He felt Sam shake him by the shoulders, but even the normal chimes he heard when Sam touched him had muted to an unpleasant, clinking rattle. Sam was snapping his fingers in front of his face with a frantic, pained expression. Whoever was doing this to his brother, whoever had stolen his light and joy was going to pay. Dean would see to it. No matter what he had to do, no matter the cost to himself, he’d put this right. He tried to tell Sammy, so.

“Don’t worry, Sammy. Don’t be brown anymore. I’ll take care of you, little brother,” he assured Sam who leaned in close to listen. It was all very confusing, though, because that seemingly only made Sam more upset. Big tears welled in his eyes and threatened to spill over. Dean didn’t understand why he couldn’t seem to comfort him. It made no sense for Sam to be so troubled. Hadn’t he always taken care of Sammy? It wasn’t even a promise. It was a statement of fact. It was a given. Dean would take care of this, period. Instead, Sam just kept kneeling above him, speaking words that he couldn’t hear, shaking him until finally Sam reached out and gave him a rather harsh slap across the face. “Ow! Fuck, Sammy! Th’h’rts!”

* *

“Dean!” Sam shouted in a panic. He reached Dean’s crumpled form and untangled his limbs, laying him flat. He ran his fingers through his brother’s hair and shook him. “Don’t do this to me, Dean! Wake up, goddamn it!” Sam looked up at the painting and wondered if that was all Dean had to give. Terror seized him that Dean was going to burn out faster than they’d anticipated. When he went to check for a pulse, Dean’s eyes fluttered open and roamed around the room, empty and unfocused.

Sam fisted Dean’s shirt and shook so hard he nearly lifted his brother right off the floor. “C’mon Dean, you with me? Dean!” Dean’s glance flit around without recognition until it landed on Sam. “Dean, can you hear me?” he half shouted but got no response. Dean just continued to stare until he slowly seemed to focus. He looked at Sam and at the space around him, seeing something in his parameter that made his eyes melt with sorrow and care. Suddenly, Dean reached up a hand that he couldn’t control and slammed it feebly into the side of Sam’s head. Sam grasped the hand and held it close. “Dean, please,” he begged. “Tell me you can hear me, man. Dean! Can you see me?” He snapped his fingers in front of Dean’s eyes looking for some kind of reaction. “Goddamn it Dean!” This was killing him, watching his brother tormented and lost like this. The look on Dean’s face was so shattering. It devastated him, whatever was going through his mind it was enough to bring a clotted lump to Sam’s throat.

Dean opened his mouth and strove to speak. Finally, words tumbled out, a low rasp that Sam had to bend down to hear. “Don’t worry, Sammy. Don’t be brown anymore. I’ll take care of you, little brother,” he said with his eyes filled with the same love and devotion that lay splattered across the motel wall. It broke Sam into pieces. Dean continued to softly regard him, trying to comfort him, wordlessly trying to convince Sam to believe that he would make everything all right just as he always had. It shamed Sam to think of the argument they’d had the other day. How could he have not known that this, right here, was as innate to Dean as the green in his eyes? How could he have told his brother that he didn’t need or want the one thing that was fundamental to Dean?

Sam couldn’t bear it. His brother continued to gaze quietly at him in semi-awareness. “Dean! Snap the fuck out of it!” Sam shook him violently. Unable to talk or persuade his brother out of his lassitude, Sam’s fear percolated past boiling. “Goddamn it!” he bellowed as he slapped his brother soundly on his cheek in a last ditch effort to bring him back from wherever the fuck he was.

“Ow! Fuck, Sammy! Th’h’rts!” Dean shuddered in surprise and rubbed his cheek with sloppy indignation. “Wha’ th’fuck j’a do that for?” he grumped, trying to rise haltingly on his elbows.

“Dude, can you hear me?” Sam reached down and scooped him into a semi-sitting position, holding him firmly.

“Yes. Fuck. Geez, Sam, didja have t’be so rough? M’ear’s ringing.” He continued to massage his sore cheek.

“I’m sorry, man. I couldn’t get you to respond. You passed out.” Sam helped him sit up the rest of the way. Dean sat there and blinked listlessly, still in that liminal state between awareness and oblivion.

“Aw, fuck,” Dean lamented, spying a tragedy. He lazily picked up his fallen soldier of a beer bottle and moved to drain the last few, brave drops from the bottom. Sam pulled the bottle from his brother’s quivering, anticipatory lips with a hollow, echoing pop.

“No. No way, Dean. This ends right now. Things are bad enough without you doing that. No more alcohol,” he said sternly.

“Th’fuck Sammy?” Dean groused and rubbed his head. “M’out of paints.” His brain was still roaming randomly, and it latched onto a new thought as it skittered past. “I really need more paint, Sammy,” he pled.

“OK, Dean. I’ll get you more, but you _have_ to do a few things for me, first.”

“Aw, Sammy. Sammy, you know I’d do anything, _anything_ for you.” Dean pawed his brother with maudlin affection, trying to console him.

“Good,” Sam said. “No more beer. Promise me that.” Dean sighed woefully but nodded his promise, and Sam knew he’d keep it. “You need to rest a while, and, dude, you really need a shower.” Dean grinned and piffled. “Do those things while I go get your paints and some food. And you’re going to eat this time, Dean. I mean it.”

“All right, geez, y’er a pain in m’ass,” Dean said as he slowly rose. He stood for a moment, checking his balance and bending his knees to make sure he had his center. “I’m good. I need to find my sketchbook, though. I have to try and see if it will help me think just a little. I really need more paints soon, Sammy.”

Sam spotted the sketchbook by the wall and handed it to him. He threw on some clean clothes while Dean sat at the kitchenette table and sketched in his pad. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try and clean yourself up while I’m gone, because you really reek, dude.” Sam had to smile in spite of everything as Dean quietly flipped him off.

* *

It took every ounce of his will to play along with this. Despite Caleb’s warning, Sam felt an almost uncontrollable urge to confront them, to find out which one it was and then plunge the sharpest thing he could find into her. Instead, he simply stood there trying not to drop the armful of paint tubes he was juggling.

“Sam! Oh my goodness, sweetheart, let me help you,” Cleo warbled, grabbing and gathering up several tubes with her man-hands. “What’s happening? How’s Dean doing?”

He narrowed his eyes and spoke with deliberate moderation. “He’s fine. He came home yesterday. He’s just needs to _rest._ ” He looked from Cleo to Leana trying to drive home a message.

“Of course, Sam,” Leana assured. “At least he’s on the mend, right?” Sam studied her suspiciously. The dress she was wearing was extremely flattering, and she seemed softer than he recalled her being the first time he met her. His eyes bounced from Leana to Cleo, and he had a hard time deciding between the two. It could be either one, or maybe he was entirely wrong and it was neither.

“I tried to call you, Sam. We’re just picking up a few supplies to take to the center later on, but we’re about to go to St. Cecilia’s for Thom’s memorial. I thought you might like to come with us,” Cleo said. “Of course, I understand if Dean needs you more, though.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I need to be with my brother today,” he said. “I’m almost done with most of my research, anyway. Just need to clean up a few loose ends, and we’ll be on our way,” he said eying them for any reaction. He saw none.

“OK, darlin’, don’t you be leaving without a goodbye, now. I want to make sure that Dean is all right with my own eyes before you go,” Cleo said.

Sam handed the clerk a credit card and turned to both women. “I’ll be sure to stop by before I leave. That’s a promise,” he said emphatically.

* *

He heard the shower shut off right after he set down coffee, bagels, and the bag of paints he’d brought. He silently flipped through the sketchbook, shaking his head and threading his fingers through his hair. His hair felt dirty, he needed a shower about as badly as Dean had. After about fifteen minutes Sam went to the door. “Dude, you all right in there? I need a shower, too, man. Hurry up.”

“Uh, yeah, Sammy. Sorry, I didn’t know you were back,” he heard Dean shuffle around.

“I’m coming in,” Sam warned. He opened the door to see Dean with a towel wrapped around his waist, etching a complicated drawing into the fogged up mirror with the tip of his paintbrush. He stopped in mid-swipe and looked at Sam and shrugged meekly. Sam was apparently starting to acclimatize, because it didn’t even faze him at this point. “I got your paints and I brought food and coffee. Shave and come out. I’m up next.”

Dean seemed both tired and hyper at the same time, but he at least was shaven, washed, and wearing fresh clothes. He’d finished his coffee in seconds flat, but he wouldn’t touch the food no matter how much Sam bitched at him.

“Please, Sammy, just let me paint a while. I can’t think right now,” he grabbed his palette and loaded it up with paint, his eyes so unnaturally eager that Sam found it deeply disturbing. Sam didn’t press the point about the food, though. At least he hadn’t been drinking any beer. Baby steps.

Dean set to work immediately with an acute, fixated hunger. Throughout the day Dean painted ceaselessly. He was unrelenting, constantly in motion, sometimes manic and aggressive with forceful brush-strokes, sometimes soft and tender as though he were caressing a lover with smooth and supple dabs of color. He constantly murmured under his breath in rapt conversation with someone, and even though he had sobered, his opiate smile suggested an insidious intoxication. It went on and on as the mural seeped onto the next wall. And Sam’s anxiety was growing along with the painting.

His ability to concentrate was non-existent with his brother literally painting himself to death just a few feet away from him. Not like his lack of concentration mattered much, though. The research had reached a big, fat dead end. He’d called Caleb but he had nothing new to offer. Everyone was busy researching and trying to find some answers, Sam was just going to have to try and wait it out. But the fourth day was ticking away, and watching Dean bleed his life out onto the walls was more than he could bear. His brother began to stagger with exhaustion, but he simply would not or could not stop at this point. Sam kept checking on him, asking Dean how he was doing, but his answers were slower and slower in coming. A few times Sam had to go and stop him from painting before he would acknowledge him, and then he would respond angrily for the distraction.

The afternoon was starting to wear away and he was about to go grab some more food and try and get Dean to eat a little when his brother stumbled into the wall he was painting and collapsed to the floor.

“M’OK, just help me up,” Dean said trying to shake the dizzy out of his head.

“You’re not all right, Dean,” Sam said bitterly. “You can’t go on like this. You need to rest.”

“No, I need to paint,” he practically whimpered. “It’s all I can think about. I have to do what it wants. I have to.”

“Just try not to,” Sam said. “Let me try and help you, man.” Sam rubbed his back. His shirt was damp with sweat and his muscles were tense and twitching from the constant movement.

“Nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do to help me, Sammy.” His eyes were filled with tears of exhaustion and hopelessness.

Dean’s statement set something off in Sam’s mind. He stopped short and stood up, hoisting Dean up with him. Leading his brother to the bed and sitting him down, he went and grabbed the shirt he’d been wearing the previous day. He searched the breast pocket and pulled out the card with Dr. Liron’s contact information on it. “Maybe there is something that can help you,” he said with sudden hope.

“What? The hospital?” Dean said with a derisive snort. “Give me a break, dude, I don’t think they have a cure for Muse poisoning,” he said acidly.

“Maybe not,” Sam said, pulling out his cell phone. “But she could see it. Dr. Liron. She could see what it was doing to your brain. Supernatural or not, whatever the Muse does it has some kind of physical component. Dr. Liron said she had some treatments she was going to try. Maybe she could do something to buy us more time, stop the effects for a while at least.” He started pressing buttons on the phone. “It’s worth a shot.”

* *

By the time they’d made it to Dr. Liron’s office Dean was non-verbal. Although Sam had tried to get Dean to use his sketchbook on the way over, it hadn’t helped. Without his paints he was unable to fight against the Song in his head or whatever it was that was stealing him away. It was almost as if it knew what they were trying to do and was attacking him viciously for it. It absolutely broke his heart to see his brother rocking back and forth on the examining table, whimpering softly to himself as he snapped and batted at his fingers feverishly.

“How long has he been like this,” Doctor Liron asked wide-eyed. She was battling Dean for his wrist. She was trying to take his pulse, but he kept pulling his hand away so that he could strike it against the finger he was mesmerized by. Sam strode over and gently tapped Dean’s finger for him, allowing Dean to calm down long enough for the doctor to take his pulse. Sam kept tapping his brother’s finger until the doctor got her reading and then let Dean take over again.

“It hasn’t been long, but he’s been unwell since yesterday,” Sam said and smoothed his brother’s hair as Dean resumed his rocking and thwacking.

“I want to readmit him, Sam,” she said, looking at him with both empathy and disapproval. “I really wish you hadn’t let him leave the hospital.”

“I understand, but we had to figure some things out,” Sam sighed. He was desperate. “You don’t know the whole story,” he said.

She rose and stood, looking at him sternly. “What do you mean I don’t know the whole story? What’s going on, Sam?”

Sam hesitated, but then made a decision. He opened up Dean’s sketchbook and handed it to her. She took the book and looked at him with confusion. “Remember when I told you that my brother and I were researching the deaths of the artists from the community center?” She nodded and started absently flipping through the sketchbook. As soon as she saw the first sketch she did a double-take and looked back at Sam in astonishment. Sam nodded to his brother. “They’re his. Last week he couldn’t even draw a convincing stick-figure,” he said. “Whatever killed those other artists is now killing my brother, and we only have a few days left. What’s happening to him right now is what happens when he stops painting. He’s either like this or he’s painting non-stop without food or sleep. You have to help him. I’m begging you.”

Dr. Liron sat down and continued to look at the sketches in a daze. Her face grew more confused as she tried to wrap her mind around what Sam had said. “Are you trying to tell me that there is some kind of mad-genius disease going around?” Her question was obviously rhetorical, because Sam could plainly see and hear her incredulity.

“No,” he said. “This isn’t a disease, something—someone is killing these people, and now they’re trying to kill my brother.” He straightened up and looked her in the eye. “I’m not going to let my brother die.”

“Sam…” she said disbelieving.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” said Sam trying to master his frustration. “I only care that you can help Dean.” Tears were starting to pool in his eyes. “You said you would be able to tell more about what killed those artists if you had a live brain to study. You have one. But he’s going to die in just a few days if we don’t stop this. I need you to help me buy my brother enough time so that we can find the person that is doing this. You said you could see what it was doing to his brain and that there were treatments that might help him. I need your help, Dr. Liron. Please.” If this didn’t work, Sam had no idea what else he could do to help Dean. He wasn’t even sure he could get Dean to pick up a paintbrush at this point, he was locked far away and there was no telling how much Dean was even hearing at this point. Caleb’s words about the Muse inducing an insanity that you don’t come back from were reverberating through Sam’s mind.

Dr. Liron didn’t say anything for some time. She continued to go through the drawings one by one. She shook her head and gasped with each new drawing. Finally, she put down the sketchpad and went to Dean, trying to get him to look at her, but his finger was his universe, and that’s where he stayed.

“All right, Sam,” she said at last. “I’m not sure I understand everything you’re telling me, but I’ll do what I can. I want him readmitted, though, that’s not up for debate.”

Sam heaved a sigh of relief, releasing some of his adrenaline, “OK,” he agreed. “That’s fine. What can you do to help him?” he asked.

She thought a moment and wrote some notes down. “There are several drugs that have been shown to completely stop Synesthesia. Wellbutrin, Prozac, some others. We can start him on a regimen immediately. It will take several weeks for the drugs to build up in his system, but in four to six weeks he should be completely clear of any of the effects of Synesthesia.”

“Dr. Liron!” Sam blew out a frustrated breath and ran his fingers through his hair in order to prevent him from grabbing her by the white coat and shaking her. “We have two, maybe three days tops. Is there anything you can do to help him _now_? Tonight?”

She started to shake her head, but then stopped, considering something. She looked at Dean. “There is one thing we could try,” she offered.

“What?”

She hesitated second. “We could try electroconvulsive therapy,” she said. “That’s your best shot for a short-term fix, at least with the effects of Synesthesia.”

Sam looked confused, “Electroconvul…” and then it hit. His eyes grew wide and dangerous. “Shock therapy? Are you suggesting we do that to Dean? No way!” he spit angrily. “No way,” he said again decisively.

Dr. Liron nodded and held her hands up. “I understand, Sam, and that’s fine. It’s your call. However, I want to make sure you understand the procedure as it is performed today, without all the overblown misconceptions or dramatic Hollywood images attached to it. What you think it is and what it actually is, is vastly different, and I believe that it’s probably going to offer the quickest results for your brother.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Sam, ECT is no longer performed the way it was back in the 40’s and 50’s. They used to perform this without any medications or anesthetics. So you have those images in your head of people wracked by painful seizures and swallowing their own tongues, all of the ghastly stereotypes involved. And it’s probably true that at one time it was used as a way to control combative patients. But that’s not the way it is anymore. The procedure is quite safe and takes all of about fifteen minutes from beginning to end. Dean would be given a general anesthetic and a muscle relaxant. There will be no visible seizure beyond the slightest of tremors in his hands and feet. But the resulting paroxysm will have a profound and immediate effect on his dopamine and serotonin levels. It especially reduces the very serotonin receptors that are associated with Synesthesia. This is one of the reasons for ECT’s bad rap, actually. ECT inhibits creativity drastically, something most people want to retain. Artists hate this procedure, and I can completely understand why. In this case, however, this is exactly the result you are hoping to achieve, correct?

“Yes, but…” Sam fumbled.

“I’m not trying to sell you, Sam. This is yours and Dean’s decision. And I won’t lie to you, either. The procedure is safe, but it is not completely risk free. There are a few side effects and risks that you need to be aware of.”

“Like what?” Sam sighed.

“The procedure commonly causes some short-term memory loss. He’ll likely have some trouble recalling the last couple of days, at least initially, although that is usually temporary. There will be a good deal of confusion for several hours following the procedure. Other common side effects include headache, nausea, muscle aches, and tenderness in his jaw. Like the short-term memory issues, though, all of these side-effects are quite temporary and we can give him something for the pain and nausea after the procedure if he should need it. More rare complications include heart arrhythmias resulting from the electric shock, specifically ventricular tachycardia, which would require immediate defibrillation to correct. Then there is a small chance, and I mean a very small chance, of more long-term memory loss. Some individuals have lost more significant amounts of time, but nothing like full amnesia. The chance of this happening, however, is less than the chance of being struck by lightning. And, of course, there is also the risk involved with using general anesthesia. If you do this procedure and it works, we can repeat it every third day and give you and your brother the time you claim you need. Overall, though, it’s not a cure. His Synesthesia will keep coming back just as long as whatever is causing it is active. And we can’t perform ECT for more than six consecutive weeks at a time.”

Sam closed his eyes wearily and washed his face with his hands. “I, I just don’t know,” he hesitated. “It’s just that… _electroconvulsive therapy_ …Jesus Christ!”

Dr. Liron placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “If you do this, Sam, I will let you be there with Dean. It’s not an invasive procedure, so I can allow you to be right there with him if you want.” Sam stood there waffling, agonizing over what to do, when Dean made the decision for him.

“Do it—do it—do it—do it,” Dean whispered in time with each rocking beat as he moved back and forth. Sam came over, held his brother still for a moment and stood right in his field of vision.

“Dean, are you sure about this, man? I can’t let them do this to you unless I know you understand.”

Dean was looking at him. “Understand,” he wrenched out and went back to rocking. “Do it”. His agonized eyes were pleading for his brother to help him. With that he retreated back into himself, trying to hide from the light, the sound, and the overwhelming pain.

Sam reached out and hugged his brother’s shoulders as they jolted back and forth. He looked at Dr. Liron. “OK,” he agreed wretchedly.

“Sam, when was the last time Dean ate or drank anything?” Dr. Liron asked.

Sam had to take a moment to cobble his thoughts. He shut his eyes in concentration. “Food? He’s had nothing since last night sometime. He had coffee this morning at around 9:00am.”

Sam looked at Dr. Liron. “OK, good. I’ll go get the release papers. You’re going to have to get Dean to sign them as best he can.”

* *

Two hours had passed and they were now not long from starting the procedure. Dean had been readmitted and an IV reinserted. He was now lying on a gurney, groggy from the pre-ECT sedation they’d given him. He’d stopped his incessant rocking, but his fingers were still the most important thing in the world to him. Sam looked at his brother with immeasurable sadness. If this didn’t help him, Sam couldn’t imagine what he was going to do. Yet, at the same time, he didn’t even dare hope to have his brother restored to him. The pain of that not happening was too much to contemplate.

“Sam,” Dr. Liron popped into the recovery room where they had Dean waiting, “We’re going to start in just a few minutes. Since this was an unscheduled procedure, we had to get everything all set up. All the equipment had been shut off for the night. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

“OK,” Sam said. He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. Dr. Liron had told him that once the procedure was done they’d be able to tell pretty quickly if it had helped Dean or not. The sooner they got it over with the sooner Sam could find out where they stood. Suddenly, his cell phone rang, but with his current stress level as high as it was, he nearly jumped out of his skin. “Caleb?”

“Yeah Sam. Listen, Bobby found a spell of revealing that he thinks will work on the Muse,” Caleb told him. “Do you have paper and pencil ready? The ingredients and reagents that you’re going to need for this one are pretty extensive.”

“Hold on.” Sam reached for Dean’s sketchbook and pencil. “What do I need?” Sam wrote down the long list. “Fuck, Caleb, I have no idea where I’m going to get all of this stuff.”

“Yeah, I’m going to email you the runes you’ll need to draw. Make sure to copy them exactly,” Caleb instructed. “And not to make it worse for you, but you have to perform it at moonrise. Tonight that’s about 9:10pm.”

He looked at his watch. “That’s only a little over three hours away,” Sam hissed. “I’m at the hospital with Dean right now. I can’t leave for a while.”

“Hospital? Is he all right?” Caleb asked.

“Not really, but he’s trying to hang in there. One of the doctors wants to perform a procedure that she thinks might help him, so we’re going to try it,” said Sam.

“A procedure? What kind?”

“Trust me, you probably don’t want to know,” Sam winced. Just then, Dr. Liron came in with a couple of other people. “Caleb, I have to go, now. I’ll try and get the stuff and give it a try. I’ll call you later. Thanks man, for everything,” he said quickly and ended the call.

“We’re ready, Sam,” Dr. Liron said.

* *

Sam envied Dean in a way. He didn’t seem to know or care where he was and didn’t appear to be affected in the slightest by the intimidating machines and equipment that filled the room. There was no suggestion that his brother was put off by the thought that his brain was about to be medically fried. He just lay there, contentedly riding the sedative and strumming his hands without a seeming care in the world. Sam, on the other hand, was keenly aware and was nervous enough for the both of them. They’d wheeled Dean in and transferred him to the procedure table. Dr. Liron came over and stood by Sam, offering him her presence and support while the technicians and anesthesiologist got Dean ready.

“Try not to worry, Sam. I’ll be here to talk you through it, so you know what’s happening. Right now they’re just hooking him up to the heart monitor and attaching the electrodes.” Sam watched as they squeezed some kind of jelly onto the electro-pads and attached them to Dean’s head. Then, they strapped everything in place with a long, plastic strip that was affixed to his forehead. Knowing that 400 volts of electricity were about to pass through his brother’s brain, inducing a grand mal seizure, absolutely horrified him.

“God, I don’t know if I can do this,” he wheezed.

“Dean’s in good hands. He’s not going to feel anything,” she soothed. The anesthesiologist opened a valve on Dean’s IV and Sam watched as the liquid began to drip. “That’s the anesthetic going in,” she explained. Dean suddenly began to twitch and breathe rapidly, and Sam grew agitated and jumpy right along with him. Dr. Liron placed a calming hand on him. “It’s just the first affects of the anesthesia. He’s fine, Sam, it’ll pass.” Within seconds Dean’s hands fell limply to his sides and all the twitches and ticks stopped completely and his breathing evened out. Sam could feel his heart fluttering in his chest. He took a couple of panicked paces and returned to stand by Dr. Liron’s side. One of the technicians opened Dean’s mouth and inserted a flat rubber guard and then clamped his mouth shut. “That’s the mouth guard. They’re going to place the breathing mask over his nose and mouth now.” Right on cue the mask was placed over his brother’s face, and the anesthesiologist turned some dials and made some adjustments to whatever gas he was using. Sam’s breathing started to come in shallow hitches. A few moments passed as they closely monitored Dean’s vitals, then a vial was injected into the catheter. “That’s the Succinylcholine, the muscle relaxant. It wears off in about five minutes, so they need to make sure that once that’s been injected that the procedure is performed quickly, so we’re only a minute away.” Sam’s hands fisted through his hair and latched onto the ends for dear life. The anesthesiologist started doing something to Dean’s eyelids, pressing and stroking them lightly. “He’s checking his reflexes to make sure that the paralytic has taken affect before he starts.”

“The lid-response is gone,” the anesthesiologist looked at the doctor next to him. “We’re ready,” he said.

The doctor nodded and turned a few dials on a box-shaped machine that was placed at the side of the table. Sam winced, _Oh god, Dean. I’m so sorry!_ He couldn’t breathe. The doctor pressed a large green button, holding it down for a couple of seconds then released it just as an oscillating noise, eerie and melancholy, started warbling from the machine. “Here we go,” he said.


	7. Bad Moon Rising

Hunters don’t process terror the way civilians do. That natural flight-response that has normal people shrieking and running for their lives has been dulled over the years by constant, repetitive conditioning to the contrary. Hunters are almost all ‘fight’ and Sam was no different. Ghosts, spirits, black dogs, shapeshifters, hell, even evil muses are far more likely to evoke anger and hatred rather than terror. Creeping through cold-spots in the dead dark of a haunted house didn’t faze him in the slightest anymore. Breaking into a crypt to open a coffin and set a corpse ablaze was just another quiet evening at the office. At this point, Sam didn’t think there were any conditions under which he’d be able to experience terror in the traditional way. But the doctor’s finger on that green button proved that assumption entirely wrong. He could feel fear. Real, honest to god, run for your life, dive-under-the-blankets-and-cower—terror. Everything in Sam was screeching for him to turn-tail and bolt as fast and as far as he could. Anything to get away from the horror of that green button. The only thing that kept him rooted to the floor was the unshakable knowledge that his brother needed him here more than Sam needed to flee.

“ _Here we go,”…_

Sam’s heart galloped wildly as the doctor depressed the button. A few seconds had lapsed since, but nothing seemed to be happening. Sam wondered if something might have gone wrong. With the exception of the strange, sci-fi mewling sound being emitted from the machine, everything remained still and quiet in the room. Dr. Liron patted Sam’s back and walked over to the end of the table and turned to him.

“He’s doing fine, Sam. The seizure will last just a little over sixty seconds,” she said.

Sam furrowed his brow and watched his brother closely. “What do you mean?” He asked confused. “Is it…It’s happening right now?”

Dr. Liron nodded and beckoned him over. “Yes,” she said. “See?” She gently lifted Dean’s foot and Sam finally noticed that his toes were curled downward and trembling slightly. “He has approximately forty seconds left.”

She was right. This wasn’t what Sam had expected, but it did little to assuage his fear and anxiety. Whether or not his brother was visibly writhing, Dean’s brain had just been violated in one of the most brutal ways that Sam could think of. Intellectually, he knew that the muscle relaxant was keeping Dean’s muscles from straining and preventing his bones from breaking, but he almost wished Dean could physically purge the anguish that he must be feeling. Sam hated to think of his brother being trapped inside himself with no way to communicate his pain. He had to keep reminding himself that the anesthesia was preventing Dean from being aware of any of this. He internally counted down the seconds, willing them away… _forty seconds…thirty seconds…_ He had to find the muse as quickly as possible, because no way in hell would he put Dean through this a second time. No way in hell would he be able to watch his brother go through this a second time _…twenty seconds…_ He prayed that this would buy them the time needed to find and finish her. They just needed a couple more days, just a couple more _…ten seconds…_ He kept his eyes fixed on Dean’s foot, pleading for the tremor to stop, for this to just be over with _…three seconds…two seconds…one second…_ His countdown was complete but Dean’s seizure continued.

Sam had had enough.  He looked at Dr. Liron and shook her arm.  “Make this stop.  Make this stop right now!”  He grabbed his brother’s foot and tried to rub the seizure out like a cramp.  

“Calm down, Sam.  He’s going to be…” just as she was speaking Dean’s foot relaxed and the creepy electronic trilling ceased. 

Sam looked to Dr. Liron, “Is it over?” 

“It’s over, Sam.  See?  Not so bad,” she said, completely oblivious that it had, in fact, been one of the worst minutes of Sam’s entire life.  Several quiet moments passed as they monitored Dean.   

“Is anything wrong?” Sam asked, worried that they were just waiting around. 

“He’s doing fine.  The muscle relaxant makes it impossible for Dean to breathe unaided, so they have to wait for the affects to wear off and for him to start breathing on his own again.  It won’t be long.”  A few minutes passed before activity resumed around the table, and the anesthesiologist began bringing Dean back up.  He’d stopped the IV drip and adjusted the gas coming from the breathing mask.  Moving close and speaking directly into Dean’s ear he told him that the procedure was over and prompted him to open his eyes. The doctor removed the mouth guard and began tapping certain muscles, ensuring that his reflexes were returning. They spent a couple of moments just patting and rubbing him, stimulating him with touch until he started to respond with slight movements. They kept a close eye, too, on the heart monitor to make sure his heart’s rhythm had not been affected by the electric shock, but everything seemed to be fine. Sam watched his brother’s eyes flutter open and close several times before he succeeded in getting them to stay open for a few seconds at a time. Sam tried to move toward the head of the table so that he could let Dean see him, but Dr. Liron held him back. “Just give them a minute, Sam.”

Dean emerged slowly. At first his focus was little more than that of an infant, his eyes meandered aimlessly with no apparent programming or set destination. Then, when his pupils finally fired with thought, there appeared to be little organization to it. Minutes passed and he seemed to grow more alert and responsive, but his disorientation grew right alongside his returning senses.

“Whhh th’fuu?” Dean struggled to get his mouth to work, but the words came out such a garbled mess that Sam was sure that he was the only one who could have translated them. It was far easier to pick up on Dean’s meaning from the expression of annoyance and perplexity that washed over his face. Sam could see Dean trying to right himself as he looked from doctor to doctor. The anesthesiologist bent close to Dean’s face again and tried to reassure him that everything had gone well, but having a strange face that close to him in his present state of confusion only caused Dean to go into battle-mode. He tried to headbutt the doctor and spring away. Luckily for the doctor his headbutt was no more than a lethargic thump and his ‘spring’ a sluggish flop. However, the outburst caused a sudden and decisive flurry of action. Within seconds, several hands were grabbing and pinioning his brother’s arms and legs. Sam heard the word “restraints” being shouted out. The hunter instincts in Dean took over and despite being drugged out of his body and mind, he began fighting for what he thought was his very life. He seemed truly surprised that he had no strength or control over his limbs. When he saw the restraints being brought out, he let out a heart-wrenching primal wail of helplessness and frustration as he continued to fight. Sam’s instincts also kicked in at that moment and he sprung immediately into the fray.

He tore himself loose from Dr. Liron and pushed his way to get to Dean. “Stop! Don’t do that! Let me through!” he shouted. “Dean!” He bent down toward his addled brother. Dean flung out a hand that had escaped the grip of the doctor during the melee over the restraints, and he tried to bat Sam away. Sam caught the hand and turned Dean toward him. “Dean!” Sam said in a stern tone. “It’s me. It’s Sam. Don’t fight me, man.” Dean squinted and looked suspiciously at Sam and then recognition flooded his face.

“S’mmy?” he said trying to work the word around a half-paralyzed tongue.

“Yeah, Dean. It’s me. You’re safe, I promise you. Just don’t fight us. You’re going to be OK. I’m right here, Dean,” Sam soothed, gently pushing his brother back down onto the gurney.

Dean’s face reflected a thousand questions, but he trusted his brother and allowed Sam to guide him back down. “Wh’r m’I?” he fumbled.

“You’re in the hospital. You’re going to be fine, but you can’t fight these people, Dean. Be good and let them help you.” Sam patted his brother’s chest and rubbed his shoulder.

“M’head h’rts. D’I fall?” he asked.

“Something like that, man. Don’t worry about that right now. Just lie still for a minute.” Dean relaxed and nodded to Sam, promising his cooperation. Sam turned to the doctors. “I’m sorry. He’ll lie quiet now, please, _please_ don’t restrain him.”

After several minutes of continued monitoring, they wheeled his brother into the recovery room. Dr. Liron stayed with them. Once Sam had reassured Dean that he was safe he had closed his eyes, surrendering to the drugs and his complete exhaustion. He hadn’t opened them since. Knowing that Dean hadn’t had any proper sleep in days, Sam was grateful that is brother was finally resting, but he still needed to know if the procedure had worked. Dean had spoken directly to him, which was more than he’d done almost all day, but he was anxious to find out his brother’s current state. “Can I talk to him?” Sam asked.

“Sure, for a minute, but he really needs to get rest now. Keep in mind that he’s not going to remember much at first.” She situated his IV line and injected something into it. “For pain and nausea, she said. Best to be safe,” she explained. She gave Sam a cup of water and a straw. “Give him a little of this if he wants it. I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving them alone.

Sam bent down and gently rubbed his brother’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Dean, wake up for just a minute for me,” he softly tapped his chest. Dean opened his sleepy eyes. “Hey man, how you doin’?”

“W’s gonna ask you that,” Dean licked his dry lips with a thick, sluggish tongue. He slowly reached up and rubbed his jaw as though he’d taken a blow to the face. “Wh’r m’I?”

Sam held the cup of water that Dr. Liron had given him and helped him drink. Dean drank more than half of it in one go. “You’re in the hospital, man. You’re name is Dean Berkowitz, try not to forget the last name. What’s the last thing you remember, Dean?”

“Uhhnh, I th’nk I fell?” Dean guessed, letting the weight of his eyes get the better of him.

“Yeah, you did, but that was days ago. Listen Dean, I know things aren’t going to make much sense for a little bit, but you have to trust me, OK?” Sam gently patted his brother’s chest to get him to open his eyes again. “Open a second, Dean.” His brother did has he was asked. “You hear me? You just relax and don’t fight anyone, OK?”

“OK, S’mmy,” he agreed. “I’mma sl’p now, K?” He nodded and closed his eyes.

“Dean, wait. I know you’re tired. I want you to look at me for just a moment.” Dean opened his eyes and looked. “Do you see anything?”

“Jus’ yer fr’kish face.” Dean gave him a sloppy grin.

“Cute,” Sam placated. Dean’s eyes closed again. He shook him slightly until Dean responded and looked at him. “Anything? Any colors?” Dean’s brow furrowed and he stared at Sam as though he was speaking Chinese. Sam tapped his brother’s chest. “Do you hear anything funky? Any bells? Do you hear any music, Dean? I need to know.”

“Th’fuck ‘r you on, dude?” Despite his complete exhaustion, Dean looked at his brother worriedly. “You OK?”

“I’m fine, Dean. Just humor me. Nothing? You don’t see or hear anything strange?” Sam saw it coming. “Besides me, dude.”

Dean looked at him a slow, drowsy moment. “I dun h’r or see anythin’ odd, Sam,” he gently condescended. He didn’t know what he’d done to earn it, but Sam’s face splintered into the most genuine smile he’d seen in a long time, since before he left for Stanford, in fact. Christ, how he’d missed that. It was pure, golden sunlight in a cold, black night.

“That’s good, man.” Sam felt a little faint as a tingling pang of relief surge through him. He took just a moment to stand there and sponge it up, to just feel his overwhelming gratitude. “That’s awesome.” Sam looked at his watch. Two hours until moonrise. He looked back to Dean who had faded and was nearly asleep. “Listen, Dean. I have to go for a little while, but I promise I’ll be back in just a few hours. You get some rest, man. OK?”

“K S’mm…” He slurred as sleep stole his last syllable.

Dr. Liron came in just as Sam was pocketing Dean’s small baggy with his amulet and other jewelry for safe keeping. “Did he wake up for you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Sam looked at her gratefully. “I think it worked. He isn’t seeing any colors or hearing anything. Of course right now he doesn’t remember that he ever had. And he’s sleeping now, that’s something that wasn’t possible for going on two days.”

Dr. Liron smiled. “That’s good, Sam. I’m going to let him rest for a while before I wake him for any tests.” She looked at him as he was collecting his things. “Going somewhere?”

He tore out the page with the list on it from the sketchbook and pocketed it. “Yeah, I have to leave for a few hours. I have a lead on whoever is doing this. I’ll be back later tonight. You have my cell number if anything happens. I hate to leave with him not understanding what’s happening, but I have no choice.”

“All right, Sam,” she said. “I was figuring on staying late tonight to finish up some paperwork. I’ll keep an eye on him and get him settled in his room in a little bit.”

“I appreciate that.” He turned at the door. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. Really. You’ve been more help than you’ll ever know.”

She smiled. “It’s no problem Sam. I’ll be here when you get back.”

* *

Sam didn’t have much hope, but this was all he could think of with time running out. He ran back toward the motel and drove around the corner to where they had walked home from the poetry reading the other night. He spied the store he’d seen a few nights ago, _Erato’s Wiccan Apothecary_ , and parked the car.

The store was mostly as he feared, New Age gimcrack and gimmicks. There were, however, several jars of spell ingredients and herbs behind the counter. He walked up and nodded to the exotic, young woman tending the till. Her hair was as long as Jessica’s but jet black and partially swooped up in a knot behind her head, leaving several tendrils to frame the plethora of amulets and charms she was wearing around her neck.

“Hail and well met!” She said to Sam. “I’m Era, how can I help you this evening? Her smile was warm and genuine and even though Sam didn’t put much stock in mainstream, _New Age crap_ as Dean would say, he was, he hated to admit it, oddly attracted to her ‘energy’. OK, if he had to be totally honest, she was sexy as hell in her light tank-top and form-fitting hip huggers, but still.

“Hi Era, I’m Sam. I am looking for a few items, I’m really hoping you might have, or if not, maybe you know where I can get them?” He smiled.

“Sure, Sam. What do you need?”

Sam got out his list that Caleb had given him and rattled off the items. “Um, I need dragon’s blood ink, green laurel, linseeds, black hen feathers, charcoal, some candles, a hanging sieve and a censer. Oh, and I need some hemp rope if you have it.”

“I can help you out with everything but the hemp rope, but that shouldn’t be a problem. There’s a shop just a couple doors down that sells hemp fabric. I think they carry hemp twine and rope,” she said. She busied herself about getting the items. “So you’re looking for a thief?”

“I’m sorry?” Sam asked confused.

“A thief?” she asked. “You know,” she nodded, “the ingredients? Aren’t they for the thief-revealing spell? I assumed that’s what you were doing. Are you trying to find out who’s stolen something from you?” She began to collect the items and set them on the counter.

“Well, in a manner of speaking yes.” Sam wasn’t sure what particular spell Bobby had given Caleb, but he supposed it was a related spell in any case. “Well, no, somebody who’s stolen something from my brother, actually,” he corrected himself.

“Ah, I see. Well if you’re going to be casting the spell, don’t forget to have one of his personal belongings on you when you do the ritual, otherwise it won’t work properly.” She bagged up the ingredients and smiled. “Anything else for you Sam?”

Sam looked at his watch. He had just enough time to run next door and grab the rope and get back to the motel. “No. Thanks very much Era. You’ve been a huge help.”

* *

The hell if it wasn’t just like those doctors and nurses to jab you, poke you, prod you and then force you to wake up out of a dead sleep just so that they can give you something to put you right back down, for fuck’s sake. He was so very tired, but as hard as he tried to ignore her, she just wouldn’t shut up. He sighed and opened his eyes. Nice. Short, petite, big eyes, dark hair and dimples. He loved dimples. OK, maybe she had about ten years on him, but she was smokin’ hot and, really, age was no major barrier, especially if you looked like her. He pulled out all the stops and gave her his sexiest smile, the same killer smile that women had been falling for ever since he was fifteen years old. She said something to him, but he didn’t catch it. She was probably saying hello. “Heyyy sweehrrr,” he answered, but his tongue wasn’t working. He moistened his lips casually, with just hint of sensual suggestiveness. He’d learned that in most cases less was more. He tried again. “Sweeeee hhhhhhhrrrr.” Huh, he’d lost his T’s somewhere. Fuck it. It didn’t matter. Who needs ‘em? Suddenly, she was prying his lids open and flickin’ her Bic at him and saying something that made no sense. Doctors. Always with their damn lights. Jesus H. Christ. “Jeeees Ayyy!” He didn’t care how hot she was, he really let her have it and swatted both her hand and the offending light away. For being five-foot-nothing, though, she was probably one of the strongest women he’d ever encountered. She didn’t seem to have much of a problem pulling his hands away as she continued to babble and shine her damn light. His muscles were sore as hell. That must be the reason she was able to get the jump on him. Still, he wouldn’t want to arm wrestle her. Wouldn’t mind mud-wrestling her, though. Heh-heh. “Mu’wressle? Heh heh!” He gave her another winning smile. She smiled coyly in return and tried to make a move on him, caressing his ear erotically and drawing a suggestive, naughty finger down the length of his jaw and onto his neck. Putty in his hands. Every damn time. Man, he’d love to oblige her, but he just couldn’t keep his eyes open another minute. “M’be lat’r,” he offered with a sly, little wink before sleep latched on and yanked hard.

* *

Dr. Liron quietly sat at a work table in the recovery room with several case folders in front of her. She thought she’d be able to catch up, but she just wasn’t into it. She couldn’t stop thinking about the young man laying four feet from her. Every once in a while a certain patient would catch her off guard, work on her heart strings and motherly instincts. She’d rarely seen such misery in a patient as she had seen in those green eyes. Just as rare was the absolute devotion and support she’d witnessed in his brother, Sam. He’d been unrelenting in his brother’s behalf this whole time. Fact of the matter is, she’d come to care about both of these two boys. She wasn’t necessarily sold on their story, but she was absolutely convinced of their sincerity. She looked at her watch. It was coming up on 9:00pm. She was tired, but she’d try to stay until Sam got back. She still had to get Dean settled in a room. She looked at her patient who was sleeping soundly and went to go check on him.

She touched his shoulder lightly and called his name. “Dean. I want you to open your eyes for me, OK?” She got no answer, but the heart monitor and the change in his breathing showed that he was hearing her. “Come on Dean.” She gently shook his shoulder. “Dean I need you to open your eyes for me for just a little bit, now.” She kept at it for another minute before he finally opened his eyes with a sigh. It took another moment for them to focus. His eyes passed over her and his mouth opened in an agonized, almost constipated-like grimace. “Dean, are you in pain?” she asked in growing concern.

“Heyyy sweehrrr,” he slurred. He looked baffled, sloppily licked his lips with a languid, flailing tongue and repeated, “Sweeeee hhhhhhhrrrr.”

Dr. Liron lifted his lids and flashed her penlight. She wanted to make sure there was proper pupil response. “Hold still for me a second Dean, I just want to check your eyes. You don’t like that much, I know. I’m sorry about that.” Hopefully it was just the painkillers, exhaustion, and post ECT confusion doing the talking for him right now. The poor kid didn’t need any more neurological problems or complications, he’d been through enough. Everything looked good, though. Ever the fighter, Dean started batting her away.

“Jeeees Ayyy!” he griped. Well, sometimes being combative was a good sign. Dr. Liron was actually encouraged by his response. She easily held both of his arms down with one hand while she finished her test.

“You’re doing really well, Dean. You’re going to be feeling much better in no time, you hear me?” She turned off her penlight and offered her patient an encouraging nod.

Dean looked at her. “Mu’wressle? Heh heh!” he bared his teeth, crinkled his nose and grimaced again. Dr. Liron was concerned about his pain level with all the grimacing and wincing he’d been doing, but she couldn’t give him any more pain meds for another hour. She smiled worriedly and checked him for fever. She felt the soft crease behind his ear but he wasn’t too warm. She moved down and checked the pulse on his neck, but that too it was fairly strong. The poor guy had just been through hell, he was just out of it with the painkillers and exhaustion, not to mention everything else. She’d keep an eye on him to make sure his discomfort didn’t get any worse.

“M’be lat’r,” he garbled as both his eyes began twitching erratically. He was sound asleep a few seconds after that. Dr. Liron patted him with motherly fondness. Poor kid was loopy as hell. Sleep was the best thing for him right now.

* *

It was almost moonrise. Sam was still setting up the altar and getting everything ready. It had taken him some time to get the necessary runes written on the sieve with the dragon’s blood ink. Caleb had emailed him a copy of the characters but the script was unknown to him, so it took a while to copy correctly. He set up the candles and began burning the incense. He looked at the time. Moonrise had begun. Taking out Dean’s amulet he placed it around his neck, just to be sure. He poured the linseeds into the censer and began to heat them. According to the instructions Caleb gave him, everything was ready. He took a shaky breath and intoned, _Dies Mies Yes-Chet, Bene Done Fet, Donnima Metamauz._

Nothing happened. Sam looked around the room expectantly, but everything was quiet. He waited another minute and checked the censer. The seeds were there and the heat was directly on them, so it wasn’t that. He said the words again, just to make sure, but the room remained quiet and still.

“Fuck!” Sam spewed. He let out a miserable sigh and went to grab the censer to throw in anger, when he heard a small popping sound. He stopped all movement and didn’t even breathe. The linseeds were finally popping from the heat applied to the censer. Grabbing it, he spilled the seeds onto the sieve where they shimmied and jostled around. “Come on, come on. Work!” Sam urged. The seeds continued to pop and stutter even after they appeared to have cooled, and over the course of the next minute or two, the seeds began to organize themselves on the sieve. The seeds slowly skipped and stuttered into letters. Two clear, undeniable initials took shape. Sam’s eyes narrowed and he released a maledictory hiss. “You _Bitch_!”

* *

It was 9:15pm and Sam hadn’t shown back up. Dr. Liron would get Dean settled in a room and give Sam a call with the room number. She stretched her back. It was late, and she really could use a glass of wine or three. It had been a long, exhausting, but ultimately rewarding day. Dean was doing better, and all indications so far pointed to a full cessation of his Synesthesia, at least for now. It would probably be a long road to pinpoint what was causing it, but at least he wasn’t being tormented anymore. In the morning she would contact her colleagues that she’d been in touch with about the case and let them know that the patient was back under her care. This was going to be one for the journals.

She stood up and checked on Dean. He was sleeping soundly and peacefully. She patted him with genuine fondness and went to find some help getting Dean up to a room. The door opened just as she was reaching for it.

Expecting Sam she was a little confused and taken aback when she was met by a short, petite woman about Sam’s age. Thinking she was lost, Dr. Liron cocked her head to the side. “Can I help you find something?”

The young woman looked past her to the bed and then back. “No thanks,” she said flatly. “I found what I was looking for.”

Dr. Liron felt a strange pull in her solar plexus followed by a whoosh, like the nauseating centripetal force of a tilt-a-whirl and suddenly found herself being propelled backwards toward the far wall near the extra IV poles and medical miscellanea. Her head met the plaster wall and her breath was knocked clean away. She saw a burst of sparks before everything went gray for a moment. Thought and pain met somewhere in the middle and she shook her head to get her sight to return. Her first instinct was to reach up and touch where her head had hit the wall, but her hand wouldn’t budge. It was being held to the wall by some kind of force. Her thoughts were slow and stupid and nothing was making much sense, but she could see the young woman who had come to the door coolly approach her. She tried to ask her what was going on, but her throat wouldn’t process any sound.

“I want you to tell Sam something for me,” she said with simple indifference. Again, Dr. Liron tried to lift her head off the wall, to move, to say something but none of it was happening. “Tell him that Dean’s mine. He can’t hurt me. If he doesn’t want to be next, he’ll stay away from us.” A horrible smile bisected her face and she put her finger to her lips. “Now you be good and quiet for just a bit,” she said. Dr. Liron struggled to say something, but it was pretty apparent that silence was her only option, here. The girl backed away with a lighthearted shrug of malicious delight. She winked and pulled the curtain around the bed, blocking Dean from her view.

* *

Again with the interruptions. Dean groaned as he fought against the heavy gravitational pull of sleep in order to get the constant shaking to stop. An earnest voice was calling him, distressed, worried. He could have sworn it said something about Sam. He wrenched himself into awareness on that basis alone. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. “Whaa?” he squinted at the face above him.

“Dean, I’m so sorry. You have to wake up. You have to. Sam’s in trouble, you have to help him,” the face said. Familiar. He’d met her somewhere.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Dean rubbed his forehead. His head was killing him. “Sam?”

“He needs you, Dean. Something’s happened. He needs your help. Dean, can you hear me?” The girl was waving her hands in front of his face in an excited hurry. She had said something about Sam. “Dean, come on. We don’t have much time,” she urged.

Dean stared at her. He remembered now. It was that chick from the poetry reading last night, the one who didn’t like the poetry any more than he had. What was her name, again? “Leana?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, it’s me, Leana. Dean, please wake up. You have to come with me. We need to go find Sam. He’s in terrible danger.” Dean came alive at that and started struggling to sit up. She reached her arm around him and helped him into a sitting position.

“Where is he?” he asked as Leana tossed him a plastic bag of clothes that had been next to the bed. He started pulling out the clothes. He had to look closely to make sure they were his because everything was spackled with paint. He’d no idea how that had happened. Oh, right, he’d been painting a picture. Hadn’t he? It didn’t make a damn bit of sense. Something was so wrong, here. He wanted to slow down and think, but this girl was acting like the place was on fire and his head was throbbing.

“He’s at the concert hall where the composer died,” she said as she pulled off his heart monitor and removed the IV from his arm.

“Composer? He winced as she pulled at his IV line roughly. Blood ran down his arm in a little stream. He grabbed at it. “Wha’ composer?”

“Never mind for right now. I’ll explain everything later. You hit your head, so you’re a little rattled.” She helped him slip on his shirt and got his jeans up to his knees. “Do you think you can stand?”

He really didn’t think so, but he had no choice. Sammy was in trouble. He’d manage. “I can do it.” He swung his legs off the bed and nearly tumbled right to the floor, but Leana strove to support him.

“Hang on to me,” she offered. Breathing heavily, he leaned against her. His vision was snowy and his thoughts were swimming.  His head was just not right. With more effort than he thought should be necessary, he tried to reach down to pull up his pants, but every muscle protested the action. He started to tip over. “I’ve got it, Dean,” she offered. She pulled the jeans up high enough for him to be able to grab them without bending.

Dean was beyond humiliated. “Thanks,” he said and wondered what the hell had happened to him. She helped him to sit and held his shoes steady while he worked his feet into them.

She was nearly frantic. “We have to get out of here, now, Dean. Sam doesn’t have much time.” She draped his arm over her shoulder and forged quickly for the door, opening it and pushing him out into the hallway.

Dr. Liron had been listening with utter disbelief as she fought against whatever it was that was holding her fast. She saw Leana helping Dean out, but his back was turned away from her, and she could not get a single sound out. As the girl pushed Dean out, she turned and smiled wide, entirely unnatural. She put her finger up to her lips, mocking her silence and waved cheerfully. She turned back to Dean full of concern, reaching for him to offer a steady hand and shut the door behind her.


	8. Sing In Me O Muse...

She was used to people thinking her odd.  She was big, clunky and just a little oafish, but that’s just the way she’d been assembled.  Wasn’t her call, and who was she to criticize the great Artist who had sculpted her?  She would do her part to brighten up her canvas, splash it with lots of color and fun, but beyond that she didn’t feel like she owed the world anything else in that regard.  She certainly refused to apologize or make excuse.  Cleo Harper was at total peace with herself.  She’d found her niche in the art community and had become its unofficial mother-superior, a role that came with many self-imposed responsibilities, and not a one of them did she take lightly.  When artists needed funding, she would work tirelessly to help them obtain grants or private backing.  When children in need wanted to take music lessons she’d organize fund raisers for the instrument rentals and lessons.  There isn’t much she wouldn’t do for these people and she would be there for them in any way she could.  That’s why she had spent a good portion of the day with Polly Mitchell, the latest widow in the rash of unexplainable deaths in Cleo’s tight-knit world.  She felt confused and powerless over the recent events and could not make sense of it.  She was going to get to the bottom of it, though, one way or another.  But first, at least for tonight, she had to check up on those boys.  She hadn’t known them long, but that didn’t matter to her.  They were a part of her world and, so, were due all the rights and privileges that being her friend provided. She stood outside the motel door and hesitated.  It was going on 9:30pm and the room was only lit by what appeared to be candlelight.  She felt a little unsure about just barging in, but she wanted to make sure Dean was feeling better, so she knocked assertively.  

** 

Sam was going to kill her.  He paced back and forth fuming.  “Goddamned Bitch!” he seethed.  Enough.  He had to calm down and get focused, because this wasn’t going to help Dean.  He removed the amulet and put it back in the baggie for safe keeping.  He needed to get back to Dean, needed to call Caleb and see if he had found a way to kill this bitch, because simply knowing who she was would not help them kill her or help to free his brother.  Free Dean.  He didn’t even know if that was possible.  It had to be.  There was no sense in thinking more on it right now.  He just had to move, had to go, had to work it out.  Dean would be thinking clearly again, and he would help Sam fix this.  Just as he grabbed his light jacket and headed for the door, someone began knocking.  He looked through the peep hole and puffed out his cheeks.  Ugh, he didn’t have time for this.  He took a cleansing breath and opened the door.  There stood Cleo in a neon outfit holding a full sized crock-pot. 

“I’m sorry to bother you this late, honey,” she made excuse but walked right passed him into the room.  “I just wanted to come and check to make sure Dean was doing all right.  I brought him some homemade soup.  I figure you boys probably don’t eat right when you’re on the…”  She stopped short nearly dropping her crock-pot.  Sam took it from her and set it on the table as Cleo stood there in bewildered awe as she looked at the mural on the wall.  She didn’t speak for some time, she just stood gaping.  Her eyes moved back and forth as she took it all in, growing thoughtful and soft the longer she studied the masterpiece.  Sam felt his cheeks flush with heat a little.  He didn’t really want Cleo to see Dean like this.  The only reason that he hadn’t pulled her away was that he had remembered what Dean had said about her.  Dean trusted her, and he had been right about her, she wasn’t the Muse, so Sam didn’t make any moves just yet.  He cleared his throat to try and bring Cleo back to the present.  She turned to him with tears running down her cheeks in little rivulets.  “Did—did you do this?” she asked.   

Sam stood side by side with Cleo, quietly regarding the painting with her.  “No,” he said.  “Dean painted it.” 

Cleo breathed in a long, quivering breath of air.  “I had no idea he could paint like this,” she said turning to Sam in amazement.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sam’s shoulders sagged, he was so tired and worn.  He sighed sadly.  “He can’t, Cleo.  This all started a few days ago.”  He looked at her and nodded in answer to her unspoken question. 

“No!” she cried in distress.  “Tell me this isn’t happening _again_!”  She looked around the room expectantly.  “Where is he?” 

“He’s at the hospital, and I have to get back to him.  They’re trying to help him, but,” he hesitated. “But someone is doing this to your artists.  I have to try and stop her.” 

Cleo shook her head in confusion.  “Someone? Who?  What’s going on?  What are you talking about?”  She walked the length of the wall, closely studying the painting and shaking her head in disbelief.

“I can’t explain it right now,” Sam said.  “I have to get to Dean.  I promise that I will do everything I can to stop this once and for all, though.”  Sam moved to usher her out when his cell phone rang.  He saw that it was Dr. Liron and answered it immediately.  “Hello?”

There was no initial response, except a low rasp. “Dr. Liron?” he said again.

“Sam,” her voice croaked. Sam tensed instinctively.  “Sam,” she said again a little stronger but her voice still sounded like sandpaper.  “Are you OK?  Is Dean with you?” 

Sam wasn’t sure if he’d heard right?  “Dean?  With me?  What are you talking about?”  

Dr. Liron tried to clear the rasp out of her voice, “Sam, some woman, no some _thing_ was here and took Dean.  She told him that they needed to find you, that you were in some kind of danger.  He left with her.  He’s gone.” 

** 

What a mess this whole thing had become.  He’d quite literally been one of the best she’d ever had. And yet the whole ordeal had gone wrong from the beginning and had proven to be nothing but a bunch of starts and stops for days now. First there had been his unexpected head injury and now she would have to contend with his brother’s meddling.  She was losing her patience, and her hunger had never been so sharp. She had to get him somewhere safe to undo the horrible effects of the doctor’s treatment.  He wouldn’t be able to paint for a while, but she would work to combat what they’d done to him.  If she worked diligently without interruption she would be able to fix him in a day or two at most. How she had hated that horrible procedure.  She’d run up against it from time to time over the past seventy years or so.  It always made her work harder.  She looked at her artist who was slumped against the window in the passenger seat.  The medicines they’d given him were too strong for him to overcome, and the walk out to the car had been extremely exhausting for him, so he’d fallen asleep almost the moment she’d gotten him into the car.  She reached out and pet him lightly and heard him call out his brother’s name in response. 

She pulled the car she’d stolen into the parking lot of the performing arts building and parked behind some dumpsters.  She took a deep breath and bent toward her artist and shook him soundly.  “Dean, we’re here!  You have to wake up, now.”  Dean flinched a little as she shook him, but he wasn’t successful in getting his eyes open.  “Dean, Sam needs your help!  Please wake up.”  At that Dean opened his eyes and rubbed his head. 

“Wh’r s’he?  Is he a’right?” His first attempt to sit up straight failed, but he made it on the second try.  He shook his head slightly to try and keep his eyes open.  Everything ached, and nothing was making sense.  “Wh’r are we?” 

“Concert hall.  He’s fine, Dean.” Leana pointed to the building they were parked in front of.  “We need to get to the basement and then we’ll be safe.  Sam’s there.  He asked me to bring you.”  She opened the car door.  “Hang on, I’ll come around and give you a hand.” 

Dean tried to piece together his fragmented memory.  He remembered that he’d hurt his head, remembered painting a picture at the motel—that must be where he got the paint on his clothes, he thought. He remembered the agony of light in his eyes and some woman doing tests on him.  Everything was jumbled, though, and he couldn’t quite put things in order or make it mean anything just yet.  He had this image of Sam in his head, of his brother talking to him, telling him to stop drinking so much beer, but he’d been wreathed in this vibrant, golden light at the time.  Fuck.  What the hell kind of hunt had they been on?  He had no time for further musing because that Leana chick was pulling him from the car and he needed to concentrate on not falling.   

“Just lean on me, Dean.  I’ve got you.  Just take it one step at a time,” she said kindly.

Standing was a monumental task.  Digging up graves always made him sore, but this felt like he’d unearthed the entire fucking Von Trapp family. “I think I got it from here,” he said hoping that was true. His movements were stiff and he lurched more than he walked.  He didn’t want Leana to take too much of his weight, though.  She wasn’t very large and he’d relied on her enough already. He didn’t want to hurt her, so he strove the best he could to walk under his own strength.  Still, he had to grasp her to keep from losing his balance several times. 

“Rest here, Dean,” she leaned him against the door for a moment and ran back around the dumpster to the car. Making sure he was out of sight, she made a slight gesture with her hand, cloaking the car from human eyes. It wavered like a mirage and then disappeared. She ran back to Dean who had slid down the door and was slumped against it. “Let me help you, Dean,” she said giving him another shake.

“Was just resting my eyes,” he said sheepishly. He grabbed for her hand.

“Of course you were,” said Leana with a smug grin. “Up.” She helped him stand and opened the door. They entered the concert hall via the backstage entrance and worked their way up to the main foyer. From there, Leana guided him to the stairwell that led down to the basement. 

“Sam’s down there?”  Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he suddenly felt very naked without his Colt.  He didn’t have so much as a knife in his boot.  Something was off, but his head had throbbed itself into a jumbled mess and he couldn’t make heads or tails of anything.  He needed to get to Sam, needed to find out what the hell was going on, so he allowed Leana to guide him down the steps despite his prickling senses.   

Leana opened the door to a large storage room.  “Sam?” she called.  “We’re here, I’ve brought Dean.”  Dean followed her in and the door shut behind him.   

The room was too dark to make out much of anything.  He could see a bunch of stored theatre paraphernalia, music stands, crates, and stage lights.  “Sammy?” he called.  He turned around to Leana.  “Where is he?”  She looked suddenly relieved and gave him a mischievous wink.   

“Finally.” she huffed.  “That was a huge pain in my ass,” she said as she reached up and slammed her fist hard against Dean’s already traumatized head.   Dean’s world abruptly tilted. The floor performed a neat geometric shuffle and began to suddenly rush up like a freight train to greet him.  It slammed into the right side of his body with such force that the world went black and Dean forgot that he was even alive.   

** 

Sam tried to steady his voice.  “What happened, Dr. Liron, start from the beginning.”  Sam paced around the room, and Cleo had to move to avoid his frenetic movements, because he wasn’t taking any further notice of her.   

“A girl came in and,” she hesitated, “she—attacked me somehow, and she convinced Dean to leave with her.  They left about ten minutes ago.  It took a while for me to…” it sounded like she was trying to pick and choose her words carefully.  “It took me a while to recover.” 

Sam was putting on his jacket that he still had in his hand from before Cleo had knocked and was frisking himself for his keys.  “What did she look like?”  He didn’t think he really needed to ask. 

“She was young, attractive, in her early twenties.  I think Dean called her Leana,” she rasped and cleared her throat.  “Sam, what’s going on?  I need to call the police, and I don’t’ even know what to tell them.” 

“No!” Sam said.  “Goddamn Leana,” he hissed. “Please don’t make any calls to the police.   Listen, just stay there.  I’m on my way over.  I’ll be there in a few minutes.  Don’t do anything yet.”  He hung up the phone and moved to go. 

“Sam?  What’s wrong?  What about Leana?”  Cleo followed hot on his heels.   

“Your assistant just took my brother from the hospital.  I have to find her and kill the bitch,” he blurted out in his hurry and adrenaline fueled anger. 

Cleo ran around to the passenger door of the Impala and yanked it open without an invite.  “Leana?  Why would she take Dean?” 

“Because she’s the one who’s killing the artists.  I don’t have time to explain.  I have to go now.  Sorry,” he said and got in the car. 

“Cleo hopped in beside him.  You’re not going anywhere without me,” she said emphatically.  “Drive.” 

** 

“What a mess,” Leana said aloud as she looked at the unconscious man at her feet.  She sighed.  Despite her hunger she was going to have to fix him, and that would take some time and considerable energy.  She reached down and slowly dragged him to the corner of the room where she’d already set up her work space.  There was an easel, several canvases, paints, and brushes all ready, but all of that would all have to wait.  She dragged her artist to a small mattress she had shoved in a corner.  She sat down in the niche where the two walls met and situated her artist with his back resting against her breasts and his head lying against her shoulder.  She wrapped her legs around his waist and held him fast.   

“Sorry about hitting you,” she crooned in his ear with feigned sincerity.  “I just needed you to be calm while I got you settled.  I’ll fix you, now,” she began caressing his brow in soothing circles.  Her fingers began to glow dully as they brushed across his head and she massaged the light into his temples.  When he began to show some discomfort she cooed lovingly and began singing in his ear, a soft, melodic cadence that, after a while, seemed to have some kind of palliative effect, because he suddenly calmed and the lines of pain in his face relaxed.  She continued to sing and Dean released a sigh as he slept soundly in the arms of his Muse. 

** 

Dr. Rania Liron rarely drank anything harder than a good Merlot.  Tonight, however, was an exception.  She knew where one of her colleagues kept his stash of Scotch, she’d grabbed it and had it sitting out on her desk when Sam arrived.   

“Dr. Liron,” he knocked on the open door.  She finished off her first double before beckoning him to come in.  Cleo walked in right behind him.  “Are you ok?” 

She let out a small derisive snort and chuckled mirthlessly.  “Nope,” she said shaking her head and pouring herself another generous helping.  “She pointed to chairs, indicating for them to sit and went and shut the door.”

“Dr. Liron, this is Cleo Harper, she’s the director of The Louisville Artistic Endeavor, the community center that all the artists that have died have been members of,” Sam said. Dr. Liron cleared her scratchy throat and took a drink.   

“So,” she said. “What the hell just happened to me, and why can’t I inform the authorities?” 

“I’m sorry, Dr. Liron...” he began. 

“Rania,” she said.  “I’m off the clock, so just call me Rania,” she said pouring herself another drink and made an offering motion to the two of them.  Sam shook his head no, but Cleo indicated ‘two fingers’ for her.  Rania poured her a drink.  

“Rania,” Sam said, “I know this is very difficult to understand, but the police cannot help us. You are just going to have to trust me on this. Can you describe what happened?  What did she do to you?” 

Rania took a sip “She walked in and the next thing I know I’m thrown clear across the length of the room and slammed into the wall.  She never lifted so much as a finger.”  She touched the back of her head as though it still hurt.  “I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak.  I couldn’t do a damn thing to keep her from Dean.  And she gave me a message for you.” 

“What did she say?” Sam sat forward in his chair.  

“She said that Dean was hers, that you couldn’t hurt her, and that if you didn’t want to be next you’d leave them alone.  When she left with Dean she turned and looked at me with a smile so…” she shook her head in disbelief and took a large gulp of liquor, “…so inhuman.  I don’t even know what to think anymore.”  She took another sip of her drink.  “So, now, I’ve told you what I know.  It’s your turn.  What the hell happened, and who is she?  And I don’t want any bullshit answers, you tell me the truth, Sam.  I deserve that much.”   

Sam looked from Rania to Cleo and hesitated.  He bent his head and sighed.  “My brother and I came here to investigate the deaths of the artists.”  He looked at Cleo.  “But I’m not a Grad-student.  Dean and I—well our real job is to hunt down things—things like Leana—things that prey on people.” 

“What do you mean ‘things’, Sam?” asked Cleo. 

Sam sighed.  “Things like spirits, ghosts, and other nightmare creatures.”  

Cleo just nodded sagely into her scotch, as though Sam hadn’t said anything unusual.  “I had a funny feeling about Leana, but I was desperate for the help.  I might have known she wasn’t a real intern.  She didn’t even know how to type.”

“’Spirits’?  ‘Creatures’?” Rania said flatly, looking from Sam to Cleo with skepticism.  “So you’re talking about…” she couldn’t say the word. 

“The supernatural,” Sam finished.  “Yes.  I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true.  I’ve dealt with these things my entire life, and you just got a firsthand taste of what they are capable of.   Leana will continue to kill people, if not here, somewhere else until she is stopped.  I need to find a way to kill her before she kills Dean.”  He turned to Cleo. “I’m sorry we lied to you.” 

She bent forward and gripped his shoulder.  “It’s OK, Sam.  And don’t you worry, honey.  I believe you.”  She gave his shoulder a little shake of friendly encouragement.  

Rania looked at both of them and simply downed the rest of her drink.  But she was a small woman.  And the Scotch was strong.  And her world had just upended.  And she was about to be violently sick. 

** 

He was lost again.  It was getting to be a bit of a habit with him.  Time had become entirely irrelevant and he was no longer even completely sure of the month let alone the time of day.   All he knew was that someone was singing softly in his ear and had been doing do so for what felt like days, a non-stop lilting chant that echoed throughout his mind. It had become so pervasive and perpetual that he wasn’t sure what would happen to him if it stopped. Perhaps he’d be like a seafarer stepping on shore for the first time in a year, grateful for the firm earth beneath him but unable to keep his balance upon it.   He opened his unnaturally drowsy eyes and tried to sit up, but he suddenly felt arms grip him tight and a pair of lithe legs snake around his waist. They hooked together at the ankles and held him fast.  The singing became so alluring and fascinating that he simply lay still for a while just letting it wash over him.  As time passed, though, he began to rouse more fully, and he realized that lying in someone’s arms as they sang in his ear was more than just a little fucking weird.  He shifted, trying to get a look at the face that he could feel pressing against his ear.   

“Leana?” he said recognizing her.  “What the hell?” 

“You’re awake,” she nuzzled against him.  “My medicine is working.  You’ll be fixed soon.”  She put her palm to his forehead and a peaceful stupor crept over him.

Dean closed his eyes and quietly tried to piece together what had happened.  His memory was starting to return.  He remembered hitting his head and being in the hospital, remembered painting a wall because he was some evil Muse’s bitch, apparently.  Remembered that Sam had taken him back to the hospital to try and get help.  That’s where things got really fuzzy.  He wasn’t sure what had happened after that, but it didn’t take an abacus to cipher out that things had gone south from there.  He didn’t have to be a genius to know who was singing behind him for all she was worth.  “I wouldn’t try auditioning for American Idol anytime soon, sweetheart, you’re not that good,” he snarked.  

Her quiet laugh gripped him with pain and he winced involuntarily.  “Charming,” she said.  His head started to splinter.  “You’re always so clever.”  She went back to her singing.   

He sat there listening to it for a little bit and his headache eased.  “You know, Sam is going to find me, and he’s going to kill you.  You do know that, right?” he ventured. 

She smiled against his ear and blew lightly in it.  Dean could hear the wind reverberating, hitting his sensitive inner ear and sending delicious jolts of euphoria through his brain and into every cell and nerve ending. He gasped faintly from the intoxicating sensation, but he tried to pull away just the same.  He knew what she was.  “Skank,” he sneered between tantalizing waves that sent shivers down his spine. 

“What?” she pouted coyly.  “I can tell you like it,” she whickered at him, amused.  She held him tight and rocked him gently for a moment.  Finally she turned his head to face her.  “Your brother cannot hurt me,” she boasted.  “But, if he is half as satisfying as you have turned out to be, I will be sure to play with him next.”  She went back to her chanting. 

“You’re not going to lay one fucking finger on him, bitch,” he said and tried to break free of her, but her song turned vicious and his head began to jackhammer until his teeth were rattling and his body trembling.  He fell against her panting in agony.  His breathing hitched convulsively and he moaned out in anguish.  “Don’t,” he begged.  

“Don’t fight me, then,” she said and resettled him.  “Relax”, she trilled in his ear and went back to her song.  Dean lay still trying to scrape his brain off the walls of his skull and piece it back together again.  It took a moment to regain the power of speech.  

“I’ve had worse fr-from a Mr. Freezie,” he bluffed.  He lay still recovering and tried to ignore her incessant singing.  “What are you trying to make me do with your crappy Muzak, anyway?  I’ve never been much of a team player, you know.” 

“I’m fixing what the awful doctors did to you.  They made you all but useless to me.  You can’t sing for me right now, so I have to sing for you and undo what they’ve done.  Believe me, I’d rather it be the other way around.  But sometimes you have to give a little to get a lot, right?"  She applied her fingers to his temples and resumed her melody.  Dean couldn’t respond.  He could barely hear.  The enchantment was so strong and his feeling of wellbeing and ecstasy so complete that he let it cocoon him, insulate him like an inviting, crackling fireplace in the middle of a blizzard.  All too soon the wave passed and he returned to the present.  “If you’re good to me, I’ll be good to you,” she smiled. 

Dean tried to shake off her influence.  “If you’re the one making that racket now, who was doing it before?  I could hear music all the time, and it was a lot better than this.” 

“The music you were hearing?” she said.  “The Song is all you, of course.  The only thing I can do is—well—manipulate it.  I help you to perceive it in all its forms, sight, sound, taste, touch.  I control the volume, I guess you could say.  And I can whisper my own special sweet-somethings along with it to inspire you to paint or to punish you for refusing, but the actual Song is yours.  Your brother had the doctor do something that made it so that you can’t hear or see it right now, which means you can’t give me what I need.  But I’m fixing that for you,” she beamed, giving him a little squeeze as though she were delivering great news. 

“No need, sweetheart.  I’m more of a Zeppelin man, actually.  Besides, what do you even want from me?  I’m not an artist,” he said hoping to hell she wouldn’t make his head explode again. 

She laughed joyfully.  “I don’t take artists, silly.  I make them.”  She resumed her light touch on his temples, enough to thrill him, but not enough to remove him from the conversation.  “Although, it does help to find someone who works well with his hands."  She caressed his fingers, sending electric pulses of pleasure up his arm.   

“Uhhhhhnhnn,” he moaned in spite of himself.  He tried to withdraw his hand, but she continued to gently stroke each finger until he stopped pulling away.  She whispered a kiss against each fingertip and his mind started to unfurl and flap in a warm, sultry South Sea breeze.

“That’s better,” she laughed quietly.  “Although, you fibbed to me about your job, _hunter_.”  She felt him tense and she laughed lightly, blowing again in his ear and sending him tumbling into orbit.  “That’s all right,” she whispered and rocked him gently.  “I don’t mind.  I’ve never had one of your kind before.  I had no idea what I was missing.”  She was having fun.  Somewhere along the line she had started to simply tap and drain with no real contact.  Fast food.  She’d forgotten just how enjoyable a hands-on experience could be.  She’d have to do more of it, maybe.  At least she didn’t mind making an exception for this one.  She bent low and whispered in his ear, her voice the husk of dried leaves scraping and skipping along the ground in a light wind.  “Did you know that Van Gogh was studying to be a minister when I met him?  He’d never painted a stroke until he was about your age,” she said.  “And he turned out magnificent like you.  Conflicted like you.  Passionate like you,” she sighed, lost in her own reverie.   

Dean strove with all of his might to stay grounded against her spell, but it was becoming harder and harder to resist.  He swallowed and shook his head to clear it.  “Wasn’t he the batshit crazy artist, the one who cut off his own ear?  That was your handiwork?  You must be so proud.”  He felt her legs tighten around his midsection and squeeze him so hard that he thought she was going to rupture his organs.  A horrible buzzing started in his head and the vibrations sent shocks of pain radiating out three hundred and sixty degrees.  He let out a strangled groan of agony and was certain she was going to snap him in half.

“You keep fighting me much longer and you’ll end up just like him or worse,” she spat.  “You’re two peas in a pod as it is.  Stubborn.  Willful.  Ungrateful.”  Her anger grew with every epithet she hurled.   “You’re just alike, right down to your hopeless relationship with your brother.  Vincent had a brother, too. Theo, four years younger than Vincent. Theo, the stable brother to Vincent’s manic, impulsive ways. Sound familiar? Well, he was a pain in my ass just like your brother, constantly interfering with my work.  So you know what I did?  After I was done with Vincent, I killed Theo.  Just like that and all for fun. It’s so sweet.  Their graves are side by side, now, the two of them, best friends, brothers, and now plot mates.”  The Dark Muse laughed heartlessly and placed the flat of her hands on either side of his head. He bucked against her, writhing in unendurable misery. She cruelly yanked against his struggles, holding him securely and making escape impossible.  She had to raise her voice above his incoherent, strangled sobs. “And as for his paintings?  The world owes me its gratitude.  Look at the beauty I’ve provided.  What I take is a small price to pay for what humanity has gotten out of it.”  She continued the torture until he was on the cusp of senselessness.  She wouldn’t let him escape so easily, though.  Just as his eyes began to flutter she kicked him away from her, laughing shrilly as his body bonelessly slapped against the cold concrete floor a few feet from the mattress.

His vision tunneled completely and searing barbs of agony tore a ragged trench right through him.  The pain radiated beyond the space of his physical form, extending into the air around him, as though his nerves could perceive past the confines of his own body.  He tried to rise from where he’d fallen, but he hadn’t the strength.  He felt like he’d been lying there for hours, unable to move or cry out for mercy, entirely unraveled and undone.  Then, everything changed abruptly.  He felt Leana’s lips on his earlobe again and her song pouring into his brain at a fevered pitch, coaxing, bewitching, overwhelming him.  Her hands lightly brushed against him, stroking him and sending spasms of pleasure through him.  He was so tired of pain, and her song was so persuasive. He just wanted to stay here for a little while.  Just a little while longer.  Leana shifted him, turned him over onto his back and mounted him.  Every place she touched tingled and quivered with undiluted bliss.  He could feel her lips move from his ear to his cheek and she licked a stray tear that had fallen during his anguish.   

“Don’t fight me, hunter,” she whispered lapping more tears.  “Be mine and I promise you I will let Sam live.  I won’t harm a hair on his head,” she lulled hypnotically.  He could feel her moist breath against his cheek, each exhalation a warm, humid wisp that both comforted and enticed him.  She gazed directly into his weary eyes, blowing lightly into them until they rolled back and he cried out her name softly. Her pull was so strong that he turned toward the steamy warmth, seeking her out, craving her solace and favor.  Their lips met and the kiss sent shuddering cinder sparks of unhinged ecstasy through him, ensnaring him, leaving him dizzy with desire for more.  Their kiss grew greedy and demanding and Dean had no intention of letting go anytime soon.  As her tongue eagerly darted against his, a pressure released in his head, like the popping of an eardrum just as a plane reaches cruising altitude.  And with that, the melody that had been silent began to play again.  Its strains rolled over Dean in waves, foaming and breaking against him.  Each swell gyrated a little stronger until finally the Song rose to a loud crescendo, a perfect blending of pitch and tone, harmony and melody.  Leana’s tongue taunted and flicked in teasing rhythmic pulses, sending sudden bursts of color rocketing behind Dean’s eyes to play in the eddy.  

“Music’s back,” he said and collapsed helplessly into Leana’s embrace, completely slack and placid. After several moments of just floating in the pools of light and sound he opened his eyes.  He could see his blue fractals twisting off of him in radiant strands, stretching out toward Leana. Upon reaching her, they broke off and spiraled against her skin in undulating ripples, attaching themselves to her.  She helped him rise from the bone hard floor and guided him back onto the soft mound of the mattress. She twined their fingers together and kissed him deeply as the music became stronger and more commanding.  He knew what it wanted from him, and he would obey.

She smiled seductively. “You are fixed now,” she whispered into his ear.  She kissed him again and stood up and brought him a palette and some paints.  “I’ve helped you.  Now you must help me.”  Together they filled the palette with a rainbow assortment of paints and she handed him a brush.   

As her artist stood and approached his easel, she reclined luxuriously on the mattress, watching him in anticipation.  It had taken more than a full day to bring him back to her, but she knew that it had been well worth it.  She could see his cerulean geometry arcing outward, twisting in spiraling filaments that flowed into her like a sweet sap, and that was just from the music restarting. Not a single stroke had been painted yet.  He was exquisite.   

Dean looked at the easel and canvas before him.  Twirling his paintbrush in his hand like a drumstick, he stretched his aching shoulders, ignoring the pain.  He glanced at his Muse who smiled broadly as she watched, giving him a nod of approval.  As a surge of creative arousal rushed through him, he turned back, loaded his brush and obediently began his next painting.


	9. A Case Of You

__

_Oh I am a lonely painter_  
I live in a box of paints  
I'm frightened by the devil  
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid  
  
I remember that time you told me you said  
"Love is touching souls"  
Surely you touched mine  
'Cause part of you pours out of me  
In these lines from time to time  
Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine  
You taste so bitter and so sweet  
  
Oh I could drink a case of you darling  
And I would still be on my feet  
I would still be on my feet

_Joni Mitchell—A Case of You_

* *

Undoubtedly she’d been working too hard. She knew that she often straddled a fine line between devotion and obsession, and there’d been times when she’d neglect to eat properly. She really needed to take better care of herself, this whole experience being a prime example of that. Spinach and sardine omelets for breakfast from now on, she made a solemn vow. She was a neuroscientist for crying in a frickin’ lickin’ bucket. She knew, better than most people, exactly what the brain was capable of. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing. Maybe Dean had a form of contagious dementia. Contagious adult onset autism? Sure, why not, it could happen. Right? She waved her hand in front of her face, but she had to constantly adjust the distance in order to focus, because, wow, was she ever just to the right of being completely blotto. Damn. Well, there weren’t any colors there, just a small blurry hand. She checked her ears. No odd sounds. So, what, then? The supernatural? There was just no way. The whole thing was just so ridiculous, and yet Dean was still missing, and her head and throat were still sore from what the girl had done to her. To top it all off, she had just asked the brother of her patient to pull over so that she could puke. This just after he had told her that a monster—and we’re not talking about a euphemism, here, but a real, honest-to-God-boogey-man-in-your-closet _monster_ —had attacked her and had kidnapped his brother. Dr. Rania Liron was completely out of her element, and the only thing she was absolutely certain of, was that she could kiss any chance of a peer review on this case goodbye.

Sam kept his eye on Rania as he drove. She’d already had him pull over once to vomit. Dean would kill him if she lost her Scotch all over his baby, so he had to make sure she gave him plenty of warning. She was slumped in the front seat flapping her hand in front of her face and sticking her fingers in and out of her ears. She didn’t look so good. “You need me to pull over again?” he asked.

She studied her hands for another moment and then set them in her lap with a sigh. “No, I’ll be fine. We’re almost there, my house is the next driveway on the left, please.”

Sam nodded and followed her directions. “Everything is going to be OK, Rania. I know it’s a lot to take in.” Over the years there had been a few times when they’d had to explain what they did to civilians for one reason or another, either to keep them safe or simply because they’d seen too much. In Rania’s case it was a little of both. But it was always hardest on those who were highly scientifically minded. He could see her internal struggle.

“I’m not sure anything will ever be OK again,” she said with a lost look. “I just want to go home and sleep this, whatever _this_ is, off.”

Cleo, who was sitting in the back seat, leaned forward and hugged the smaller woman’s shoulders as best she could. “You’ll be all right, honey.” Sam parked the car in front of the house. “You stay here, Sam. I’ll get the poor thing inside.” Cleo helped Rania out of the car and walked her to the door.

Sam sighed and watched the two head toward the house. While he waited he dialed Caleb and filled him in on what had happened.

“Sam,” said Caleb. “Did the spell work?”

“Yeah, it did, it’s the director’s assistant, but it doesn’t matter much anymore. She has Dean, man.”

Caleb took an audible breath. “She what? How the fuck did that happen?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. I really hope you have something for me. I need to find her and Dean and end this. I think I bought Dean some time with the procedure they performed at the hospital, but there’s no telling what she’s doing to him in the mean time.” Sam sounded desperate and tense.

“Sam, we’ve been scouring all the lore we can find on Dark Muses, we’re still coming up empty. As far as the lore is concerned, she’s impervious. We’re trying to see if she has any weak spots. We’re gonna get this, I promise you, Sam. Find Dean. We’ll keep digging.”

There was nothing else Sam could say. “OK, Caleb. Keep in touch. I’m at my wit’s end, man. I can’t let him down. I can’t.”

“I know, Sam. We’ll get him back. Hang in there,” Caleb said and hung up. Cleo was just coming back out of the house. She packed her large figure into the passenger seat.

“She’ll be OK, Sam. She’ll sleep it off. Poor thing, bless her heart, she just needs time to process it all.” Cleo bobbed her head and patted his arm.

“How come you’re not having a hard time with this, Cleo?” Sam asked.

She shrugged. “Art has taught me that there is more to this world than what we can see. I wish it were all, friendly ghosts and spirit guides, but I guess you can’t have the light without the dark, right?”

“I guess,” said Sam without bothering to tell her that friendly ghosts or any benevolent spirits, for that matter, was rarely something he’d ever encountered. He wasn’t as jaded as Dean on the subject, but he was starting to have his doubts about any higher-ups being on their side. But no need to bring Cleo down. “Listen, it’s late. I’m going to take you home and keep looking for them.” He pulled out of the driveway. “Where can I drop you off?”

“Where are you even going to look, Sam? Louisville isn’t just a hole in the wall. Let’s go back to the community center and look there first. I have Leana’s address at my office. We can get it and check her place.”

“But Cleo…” Sam began.

Cleo cut him off by raising her maternal hand of doom. “Just give in, Sam. You can’t fight me. Now do as I say.”

* *

When he was good, he was very, _very_ good. Now that her artist wasn’t putting up a fuss he seemed eager to make up for lost time. It had taken a while to fix him, but she’d finally managed it. It had also taken a while to convince him to do as she asked, longer than anyone else she’d encountered, in fact, because he had viciously fought her tooth and nail, but she’d eventually prevailed there, too. The trickle had become a steady stream, and his essence was coursing out from him with every single, passionate brushstroke he made. The sensation was unimaginable. Heady. Powerful. Exhilarating. She thought he had been magnificent before, but that didn’t even come close to this. Without injury or alcohol slowing him, without his brother’s influence around him, her artist had become willing, diligent, obedient and extremely generous. She’d been reaping the rewards of her hard labor for over a day, now. She watched him work. His Song formed mathematical equations that corkscrewed and contorted into his very own delicious theme. The more she provoked him to paint, the more his fractal themes splintered off and stretched out toward her, each one more satisfying than the last. She absorbed him greedily until she felt more than a little high. And the inundation continued on unabated hour after hour. Part of her knew he would fade more quickly this way, but abundance and gratification combined into a strong intoxicant, leaving her like a kid on Halloween night overindulging on her bag of treats. It was too good to simply stop. She rose and lightly pet his lower back as he worked and looked at his painting with a little distain.

“Don’t know why you would want to paint that ugly old thing,” the muse snorted. “I think there are other, more worthy, subjects, don’t you?”

He looked at her surprised and slightly hurt. “I thought you would like it,” he said. He stopped painting, suddenly unsure of his next stroke. It pained him that he had disappointed her somehow. “I can fold up shop on this one if you want. Should I stop?” He’d do whatever he could for her. He’d been working very hard and doing his best, but helping her was more important than his personal enjoyment of the picture. If she didn’t like it, he’d paint a better one. Dean started to remove the canvas from the easel.

As he spoke, Leana had noticed that his outflow immediately ebbed to a sluggish trickle. His face was crestfallen with shame and self reproach. She stopped him as he began to take the painting off the stand. “No, don’t stop,” she said. For whatever reason, he had drawn inspiration from the painting, and she wasn’t about to stop the floodgates over her personal dislike. She kissed him and he responded to her whispers, but she noticed that his lips were dry and his body was shaking slightly.

She touched his temples, and his legs buckled. He sunk to his knees as his brain rollercoasted and his mind soared to remote lands, he was flung so far afield that he thought he should send postcards: _Sammy, I’m so fucking baked, dude! Haha. Wish you were here. I hope you find me soon, Sammy._ Leana’s voice was a sonorous presence in his head, and he listened with rapt attention. He heard her whisper promises of her gratitude if he continued to paint, if he held nothing back, if he gave his all. She needed him, she said. She wouldn’t be able to live without his help. “I promise,” he said weakly. “I promise I’ll take care of you.” He opened his eyes and reached out to her. She was wreathed in his blue aura, more so than he was at this point. He could still see wispy strands emanating off of him and absorbing into her rich blue light. It shamed him how little was flowing and Dean chided himself for it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll fix it.”

The Dark Muse helped him rise. “I know you will, Dean.” She guided him back to the easel. “Don’t worry about the painting. If you love it, I love it. Keep painting. Just don’t stop, and give it your all. Give me your best,” she urged with a kiss.

He turned back to the painting with renewed commitment, and now it was Leana’s turn to strive for balance. She felt a giddy blast of pleasure as the stream became a deluge, and his glowing symmetry hit her with the force of a fire hose. She tipped backward and landed sprawling on the mattress, too intoxicated to care. She wanted it to last. She wanted to draw this out and enjoy it forever, but as his life gushed into her she couldn’t think to stop. She watched him spread the paint on the canvas with the agile hands that had made her choose him to begin with, and she was pelted with theme after theme, his life leeching away as she captured and processed it. Her mind began to tilt and waft as she reached the point of no return. It did perplex her a little bit, though, as she swam in his waters that some of her own thoughts seemed to be altering. He’d been the most stubborn artist she’d created, but he had turned out to also be the strongest, and the more she consumed him, the more his themes fought her own for dominance. For one thing, she suddenly had a huge craving for cheeseburgers, and that made absolutely no sense to her at all.

* *

“I don’t see anything in this room,” Cleo said. “Looks like we’re clear here.” She closed the door to the sacristy at St. Cecilia’s, just another building in their non-stop search for Leana and Dean. They’d been searching for going on three days now, Cleo and Sam. That first night they had practically taken the community center apart, room by room. They had spent hours there, and when that had turned up empty, they had finally moved on to Leana’s apartment. It had been a little disconcerting that Sam so easily picked the lock, but at least he had gotten them in the door. Nothing had been inside, though. No people, no furniture, no clothes, no nothing. It was apparent that whoever Leana really was, she hadn’t been staying there. The next two days Sam had been adamant about canvassing the sewers, so they had spent almost the entire time in places that Cleo never knew existed and truly wished she’d never seen to begin with. Two showers later, she still hadn’t recovered.

Sam had said little, he’d moved from site to site, deftly going through each place systematically, but he was consumed with guilt and worry and it was taking its toll on him. When she napped in the car, or when she had stopped at home to shower and change, he had continued the hunt. The poor boy had barely slept at all, despite Cleo’s constant fussing over him. On two occasions she had snagged his keys and refused to give them back until he had eaten something and napped a few hours, but that was all she was able to achieve. He’d made several calls to his friend Caleb who was still trying to help, but each phone call had ended with Sam running his hands through his hair non-stop for minutes at a time. “Sam, did you hear me? That room is all clear,” she said again as he reached for the door anyway. His shoulders were sagging with exhaustion.

“I heard you, I just want to make sure,” he said. He opened the door and did a sweep of the entire room. He lowered his gun and hung his head a little. “That’s it for the church. Where else had any of the other victims been?”

“I don’t know Sam. I wasn’t with folks all the time, and she may have taken Dean somewhere else entirely. We could check out some of the buildings on campus. We can also check the concert hall where Thom died. Unfortunately, this is like looking for the proverbial needle, here.” She patted Sam’s shoulder. “You’re a mess, Sam. You can’t keep going on like this.”

“I’m all right,” he shrugged her off a little more aggressively than he meant to. She’d been a non-stop ‘support’, almost to the point of aggravation, but she had gotten him into all the community buildings without any hassle. She really had done her best to help him, and he really did appreciate it. He just couldn’t handle her mothering right now, not with Dean…god knows where. “Sorry,” he said. “I just can’t let my brother down. I just can’t,” he said.

“You aren’t going to, Sam. You are doing everything you know how to do, and if Dean were here, he’d tell you so himself.” Sam leaned against the wall and put his head in his hands. His chest was heaving with anxiety and fear. “Come on.  Let’s keep moving,” she said.  “Let’s head over to the concert hall and make sure that’s clean, then we can move on to U of L.”

* *

She sat up slowly. It had been at least five hundred years since she had binged this badly. For the better part of two days, now, she had saturated herself in a greedy, bibulous fervor, as his voluted patterns had spewed out of him and battered her nonstop. She’d relentlessly spurred him to continue, constantly urging him to give a little more, and as obedience had been one of the major themes of his Song, he had done just as she had asked. But something suddenly wasn’t right. Perhaps she had overdone it. She’d been like a child running free in a sweet shop, or a junky with an unguarded medicine cabinet, and she supposed she was just paying the price for her avarice. There was no denying, though, that she suddenly felt a little strange, and she needed to breathe a moment and digest. Each wheeling and looping fractal that she’d absorbed had not only stimulated her desire for more, it had also transformed her in ways that terrified her. Strange thoughts were coming unbidden to her, and she could not seem to quiet them. She rubbed her forehead and watched her artist as he worked. He’d finished several canvases and had just started another.

He looked pale and ill, but he was working every bit as hard as he had since she’d fixed him. He was still relentlessly emitting his blue fractals, so she didn’t think he had already reached his end. But something was not right with him, either. His balance seemed off and he had to constantly readjust and compensate to remain upright, but he took no note of that or of himself. His eyes and thoughts were fixed entirely on his painting. “Dean,” she called to him, but he made no response or showed any sign that he had heard her. The muse gently coerced him by changing the tempo of his Song, at that he suddenly blinked and glanced at her.

“What?” he said a little worried. “Am I too slow?” He turned back and tried to pick up the pace.

“No, you’re fine,” she said. “Stop for a moment and come and sit with me.”

He looked at her not understanding. If he stopped she would not get what she needed. Surely she couldn’t have meant it. “But what about…?” he nodded toward the painting and turned to add a few more strokes.

“No!” she said lashing out at him. He dropped his palette and brush and clutched his head in agony. “Do as I say,” she warned him as he reeled from the pain and crashed to the floor. Leana immediately regretted her outburst and ran to him and caressed him. “I’m sorry,” she cooed. “Just do as I ask, please.” And this, right here, was part of why she was suddenly confused and apprehensive. She was starting to feel conflicted and wrong inside, and it made no sense to her that she should even feel any pang of remorse at his discomfort. She watched as another of his elongated, helical fractals stretched out and fell onto her. As it settled against her, she felt even more need to ease his distress. He was on his back trying to catch his breath from her attack. She could see his heart beating through his shirt. She’d hurt him when he had been trying to give himself to her. He’d been doing everything she had asked. How could she have hurt him like that?

She laid her hands on him and gave him bliss to try and remedy the pain she’d caused. “Shhhhh,” she whispered comfort into his ear. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” she murmured. Despite enchanting him until his eyes clouded with dreamy complacency, he remained sluggish and weak, and his color did not return.

She eventually pulled him back and his eyes focused on her. “Thank you,” he said trying to swallow and moisten his cracked lips.

“Tell me what is making you ill, hunter,” she asked worriedly. “What is wrong? Tell me so that I can help you.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but I think I need water. I’m very thirsty,” he said, hating to bring it up or cause her any trouble.

Leana was furious with herself. Of course, he’d been with her for nearly three days and she hadn’t given him anything to eat or drink. She rubbed her own temples and tried to work out why it suddenly made a difference to her. Another blue pattern whirled against her. Even at rest he continued to leak into her. She was ashamed that she had taken so poor care of him when he’d been working so hard. She vowed to fix this. Another blue wave of light hit her. She looked down at her arms, they were teeming and rippling with his motifs.

“I am going to leave you for a little while and get you some water and food,” she told him. She touched him softly and spoke directly into his ear in soft, low tones. “You must stay here and be very, very quiet. If you hear anything, you stay very still and don’t make a noise. Because if anyone finds you,” she hated to lie, but she needed to keep him safe, “if anyone finds you they will kill Sam. You must protect him from anyone evil who comes, you understand?”

“I promise,” he assured her. She didn’t need to say it twice. He wondered where Sam had gotten to. Dean thought sure he was coming here to meet Sam, but he never showed.

“Where is Sam?” he asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be here?”

“Sam is safe,” she soothed and ran her fingers through his hair lightly. “We just want to keep him that way, so you need to be quiet while I’m gone. You should be fine. If anyone does come, you can just talk to me,” she said tapping his head. “You can hear me in your head, and I can hear you. So we don’t need to be in the same room to communicate. I was talking to you for days before I came and took you from the hospital, don’t you remember?”

He really didn’t. He seemed to be losing touch with what he’d done, not just last week, but last year and all the time before that. He knew he was a painter and he knew he had a brother named Sam, and that their job was to help people, to save them from things. But he was not sure what those things were. Another blue vortex spiraled off of him and floated toward Leana. “Yeah, sure, I remember” he lied. Once he got some water maybe he’d recall things easier. It was hard to talk with his mouth so dry. He was so very thirsty.

She got up and made ready to leave. “I will bring you back a cheeseburger. They’re your favorite.”

“They are? How do you know?” he asked.

Another strand of blue light swirled against her. She knew because cheeseburgers were suddenly all she could think of, she wanted one almost more than she’d wanted anything in her life. And that made no damn sense, because she only ate when other people were present and never took sustenance from it. But now her mouth was watering at the thought. “Just a lucky guess,” she said.

Dean watched her leave and shut the door behind her. As the door closed it wavered and disappeared leaving nothing but more wall where it had stood. He was completely shut in. It didn’t matter, though. He had work to do. He rose unsteadily and refilled his palette and began painting eagerly. Leana needed him to finish, and he wouldn’t let her down.

* *

“No need, Sam. I have the key to this one,” she said when Sam got out his lock-picking kit. She opened the door to the auditorium and they headed inside.

It was dark. “Where are the lights?” Sam asked.

“Hang on,” Cleo said. I’ll run and turn on the house lights. I think I know where they are, one second.

Leana hadn’t been gone more than fifteen minutes when Dean heard movement above him. He looked up and stood very still, worrying that he’d be caught and Sam would get hurt. He couldn’t let anything happen to Sammy. It was his job to keep him safe. He stopped painting and sat on the mattress and hugged his legs and stayed very quiet as Leana had asked. He hoped the muffled footsteps wouldn’t get any closer.

The house lights flickered and came on. “That’s it,” said Sam in a hoarse whisper. He checked the audience seats row by row and then went up to the balcony. Nothing was there. He went back down and searched the stage. He could still see the scattered music stands from where Dean had fallen into the orchestra pit. He stood there looking out, remembering running to his brother. Everything had gone so terribly wrong since that day. He needed his brother, needed to find him, needed to free him. He just needed his brother, period. He stood and stared into the orchestra pit, willing Dean to just materialize, somehow. Sam had rarely felt so powerless and hopeless. He had no clue how he was going to find or help Dean. Cleo came up and stood next to him.

“I’ve checked the greenroom and all the nooks and crannies back stage. There’s nothing there,” she said sympathetically.

Sam nodded and just stood looking at the spot where Dean had lain. He was exhausted and at the end of his rope. He looked out over the theatre and fisted his hands in utter devastation and loss. “DEAN!” he yelled as loud as he possibly could.

Dean heard a long, muffled wail, and he stopped breathing so that he could listen. He wished the music in his head would quiet down so that he could hear clearly. As he strained he realized he could taste peaches. He knew that meant something. He rocked back and forth and rubbed his head, trying to remember what it meant. Peaches. Peaches meant something. Meant…Sam? Sammy was there? “Sammy?” he called out, but his throat was hoarse and dry. He ran to the door but there was nothing but wall there now. He tried to talk to his Muse, tried to tell her that Sam was there, that he could hear him and asked her to please open the door. But instead of the door opening, he fell heavily to the floor in a dizzying torpor. “Leana,” he begged sleepily. “It’s Sam, he’s here finally, let me up. He’s right upstairs in the…” he tried to explain but his voice clamped shut and he couldn’t get any sound out. He watched another blue mandala whorl off of him and disappear, on its way to Leana who must have needed it more than he did.

“Did you hear that,” Sam had stopped short and didn’t dare even breathe. He could have sworn he heard a rasp of something followed by a thump. He looked at Cleo keenly. “What else is in this building that we haven’t searched?” he demanded.

“Just the basement,” she said. “There’s a stairwell up front by the lobby.” Sam was already off the stage and running before she’d finished.

Dean could hear hollow footsteps as they came down the stairs, but he couldn’t respond. He wanted to pound on the wall, but his muscles wouldn’t work. All he could do was listen and taste peaches as Sammy spoke.

“Do you have keys for the rooms down here?” Sam asked someone.

“No, I don’t Sam, sorry. I haven’t been down here myself. I know there are a few storage closets and some practice rooms. You can use your lock-pick on these doors, right?” said a beautiful voice. Dean had heard that voice before, but he couldn’t remember where anymore. He couldn’t remember much of anything anymore. The voice was pretty to listen to, though. Dean could hear the sound of a door jiggling as it was being worked on, and he was a little proud of the quick work Sam had made of it. He heard them go in and stomp around. They were right across the hallway. He tried to move, tried to shout, but he couldn’t do or say anything. The only thing that continued on was the non-stop exodus of his blue light, filaments spun away from him, helping Leana where ever she was. He couldn’t understand why Leana wouldn’t let him see Sam, though. Surely she knew he was supposed to meet Sam here. He tried to tell her again.

“I know I heard something,” he heard Sam say.

“Don’t do that to yourself, Sam,” the other voice said. “Let’s keep moving. There are another couple doors to check, and then we’ll just keep moving on. There is a pottery studio that the community center uses near Cherokee Park. We’ll try that one next.”

Dean heard them walk down the hallway and briefly search the other rooms. He heard Leana whispering to him in his head, telling him that it wasn’t Sam and to be good and to go to sleep. She would be back soon and everything would be all right. He believed her, but he didn’t know how he could have been wrong. He’d have sworn it was Sam. The Muse whispered again that Sam was not there. She told him to forget anyone was there and to just sleep. His thoughts fled away as the footsteps that weren’t Sam’s retreated back up the stairs.

* *

Sam slumped in the driver’s seat in defeat. He loosely held this cell phone in his hand, but there was no need to call Caleb again. If anyone had found anything, he would have called. He had no clue how much time the ECT had bought them, but he had a gut feeling that Dean’s time was running out. He drove aimlessly through the city streets, not knowing where else to look or what to do.

Cleo didn’t know what to say anymore. She could tell that Sam was beyond her ability to comfort. She decided to distract him. “You know, Sam, you’ve told me that you and Dean hunt these spirits and creatures for a living. How long have you been doing this job? she asked.

Sam roused and looked at her. “We were raised in it, mostly. We learned to hunt them from our dad.”

“And your mom? She hunts these things, too?”

“Our mom died when we were very young,” he said with no further explanation and Cleo picked up on his unwillingness to discuss it further, so she didn’t press.

“So you hunt ghosts, spirits, and you said creatures like Leana. You said that Leana is a spirit of some kind, but you haven’t told me what she is exactly. I worked with her for several months and I trusted her. Who…what is she?”

Sam remained quiet for a moment. “She’s a specific type of succubus. A very powerful one. She feeds off of creative energy.”

Cleo tilted her head. “You mean like a Dark Muse?”

Sam gaped at her in surprise. “How do you know that?” he asked wide eyed.

“Well, I’m an artist, silly. Most artists know about the Dark Muse. I may not know monster lore, but I know artistic lore,” she assured with a wave of her large hand. “The Dark Muse. Yates wrote about one.”

“Yeah” said Sam. “I know about Yates.”

“Then you must know about Robert Burns, too, right?” Cleo nodded.

“Who?”

“Robert Burns, the 18th Century Scottish poet. Come on, Sam, you know him. He’s the poet who wrote _Auld Lang Syne_.”

Sam was tired and wasn’t sure what point Cleo was trying to make. “What about him,” he asked.

“You know, he’s the one who killed his Dark Muse,” she said and watched his face change. “You mean you didn’t know?”

Sam stared at her unbelieving. “Come again?”


	10. In All My Dark Dispair

So much had changed through the years and yet, for her, things had always remained consistent and predictable. Ages had come and gone in the world and she’d fed without fear of challenge or contention of any kind. And as humans had progressed—from Grecian togas to Roman tunics, from Viking kyrtills to Scottish kilts, English breeches and waistcoats to American jeans and T’s—she’d feasted without compunction or the slightest ounce of remorse.  She’d satisfied herself on artist after artist, devouring as often as she pleased, as much as she pleased. She’d absorbed their petty emotions—hope and fear, desire and revulsion, love, jealousy, devotion, apathy, anger—all without any of them having the least bit of lasting effect upon her, because no human themes had ever been stronger than her own themes of malice, lust, and the insatiable need to possess and consume.  She’d never taken measures to protect herself from any type of corruption, because she had been certain she would never have the need.  No human was significant enough to trouble her.

But, she’d been wrong. Dead wrong.

She’d returned back to the concert hall to find her artist lying by the door. When she’d roused him he had remembered nothing of his brother ever having been there, and that made her feel a strange sense of self-reproach. She was able to get him to drink water, but when he had refused the food she brought, she forcibly compelled him to eat, and that, too, had injured her. During this whole time he continued to slowly shed his essence, and, what had started out as a niggling feeling became the equivalent of a full blown delirium. More and more of her energies were spent in fending off his polluted thoughts—stray, random notions of compassion, care, and fear for the very artist she was attempting to feed off of. She’d lain on the mattress all flushed with fever, shaking and drenched in sweat, unable to think beyond her own personal struggle. The artist had assumed she was ill because he had stopped painting, and he had jumped up and immediately gone back to work in order to try and save her. She tried to tell him to stop but she could not spare the energy for the war raging inside. And the more he painted the less resistance she had to overcome his taint.

He was poison. His viral fractals leeched onto her and fought against her own innate natures. It wasn’t merely the strength of his core themes, it was that they were acting in tandem, each playing upon the other until they formed a lethal combination that was breaking her apart.

The first theme was his unnatural devotion. His sense of loyalty and care for those closest to him was unlike anything she had ever encountered before. She had consumed many humans, and although she had experienced their allegiances, devotions and obligations with respect to others, this artist had embraced this theme to the point of masochism. Coupled with this theme was his abnormal drive to protect the objects of his devotion. This theme was the most savage with those he loved best, but it went far beyond that. He felt a duty to protect all humans, to save them all—to save them all from things like her.

And this theme is one that she had never yet come across, personally. She had known about those who hunted her kind. Throughout the millennia she’d heard rumors now and again of isolated instances in which they’d proved successful. But she’d never attempted to feed off of one. She never connected herself to anyone who knew her for what she was. To all others she had been a beautiful Muse, inspiring them, filling them with the ability to bring beauty into the world. But this artist knew her for the malicious, salacious creature that she was at her source. She had not known what he was when she’d first attached herself to him, but once she realized, she had been arrogantly delighted with the prospect of playing with the hunter, tormenting and reducing him to being her willing lap-dog. There had been no way, though, that she could have prepared herself for his hatred being more profound than her perverted and sadistic need to humiliate. Not only did he know who and what she was, but he had cultivated a lifetime of unrivaled hatred. And this theme was pouring into her, causing her to fight a self-loathing that she had never felt before. She was evil and wrong, and she needed to be stopped. And the compulsion was as strong as any magics she had ever possessed. His hatred for her was almost as strong as his devotion and protectiveness, and these alone were crushing her, but when combined with his final themes, she was being helplessly obliterated.

To her thinking, something was fundamentally wrong with him, some malfunction or base defect, which if left unchecked, might eventually prove lethal to him. He could be undone and lost eventually with or without her influence. His sense of humility had been aberrantly warped and had twisted itself together with a profound lack of self-worth, and while she had come up against these themes in others, they had never been partnered so completely with an all consuming, stoic willingness to sacrifice himself for his loved ones or for what he perceived to be the greater good. His various themes had been mixed into a deadly cocktail, and it was this compound that spurred him to ignore his own failing health in order to try and save her.

She twisted in torment as another fractal attacked her, bringing reinforcements along with it—thoughts that urged her to protect her artist, to protect everyone, to put things right. She could feel herself weakening, great cracks opening up in her surface. Surely he was right. She was evil. She had known this and had never cared. Not once had she ever spared a thought for those she’d harrowed and killed, thousands of them throughout her life, and now as she lay there she could recall each one. She could see their faces and the Grace that each had possessed. She could see what she had stolen from them. Closing her eyes, she tried to shut the images out, tried to hold on to herself, tried not to be sorry for Calli and Polly and their loved ones she’d destroyed. Her fists clenched and she tried to hang on. As the evening progressed she lay unable to break his grip on her, unable to overcome his influence. She shivered and writhed in agony as she fought for her life as she had known it.

“Dean…” she begged, trying to get him to stop, trying to get the words out, but nothing but his name would come out. She folded in on herself and rocked back and forth trying desperately to fend his themes off of her. Dean looked at her and quickened his hands on the canvas. “Dean! Dean!!” she moaned incoherently as he spilled more of himself into her.

“Hang on, Leana.” He tried to reassure her. “Please hang on. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix you,” he nearly cried. He began painting furiously.

The Dark Muse lay helpless and watched in wide-eyed dread as her artist covered his canvas. He was corrupting her. He was breaking her. He was unmaking her. And most horrific of all, he was still filling her.

* *

Sam was speechless for a moment, connecting the dots, trying to make sure his exhausted brain had heard her correctly. “He did what?”

“Well, you’re probably not going to find it in most of the history books, but legend has it that Robert Burns killed his Dark Muse,” Cleo said. “The story goes that he’d been attached to one for several years and when she’d finally bled him to the point of utter despondency, he had avenged his impending death by stabbing her in the heart with a silver skean. She died within minutes, but unfortunately for poor Rabbie, he died not long after. She’d apparently drained away so much of his life that he was unable to recover. He was only thirty-seven years old. Bless his heart.” She looked at him meaningfully. “I’m Scottish on my mother’s side,” she said as an obvious explanation for the gravity and authority with which she spoke.

“Are you sure of this?” Sam asked, his agitation palpable, or perhaps it was sudden hope.

Cleo put up her hand and tried not to give it more credence than she thought it deserved. “Well, I’m sure it’s a _legend_ , Sam. I wasn’t there, of course. I assume some of it may be embellishment, but I have found that most legends have grains of truth in them. How many grains this story has, I can’t tell you.”

Sam didn’t say anything else, he quickly pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Caleb,” he said excitedly, looking at Cleo. “I think I have something. I need you to look up everything you can find about a poet named Robert Burns. A friend of mine told me that there is legend in the art community that he once killed a Dark Muse with a silver blade, a skean, I think. Call me back as soon as you can, man.” He hung up and looked at Cleo. “I think maybe I see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

* *

It was getting dark.  Nothing had changed in the room.  The lights were still the same as ever, yet Dean had to squint to see the canvas properly through the strange gloam that had descended.  The darkness affected both his inner and outer reality.  It permeated his heart and mind, leaving him stripped and empty.  He rubbed his head and tried to concentrate on the Song so that he could translate it to the canvas, but it was getting harder and harder to perceive. Standing quietly so that he could hear it faintly above his own heartbeat, he swallowed dryly and made a few tentative brushstrokes, but they were all wrong. He felt a surge of panic bubble up and threaten to overcome him, but he wouldn’t stop trying. Leana appeared to be unconscious, now.

She had been moaning and thrashing about in agony. At one point she had screamed his name repeatedly as though she was begging him for something, but she couldn’t seem to get out any more words. He didn’t know what else to do so he had tried to work as fast as he possibly could, but that only made her worse until she abruptly stopped writhing entirely. That was about a half an hour ago and she hadn’t moved or spoken since then. He was failing her. She was ill because of him.

A tear dripped onto his palette and mixed with his paint. He filled his brush with it and swept it across the painting. The watery paste smudged the picture and dripped forlornly down the canvas. The colors were all wrong. They had been alive, breathing and pulsing, but everything was suddenly becoming flat, lifeless and empty. Dean squeezed some paint directly into the palm of his hand and he spread it on the canvas in thick blobs, trying to make it brighter, but it was useless. He splattered more fistfuls of paint, leaving confused, clashing smears. Looking at his painted hands, he could see only the barest tinges of blue where he’d once rippled and pulsed with vibrant, prismatic patterns. He smeared more paint on his hands and arms to try and get the color back, but no matter how much paint he rubbed on his skin, there was no life to it. He grabbed several more tubes of paint to try and finish his painting when Leana suddenly lurched up and crashed into him so hard that they both toppled over, scattering the easel and canvas as they fell.

Leana said nothing for a moment. She simply held him close and smoothed his hair. He wanted to get up and get back to work so that she would recover, but she held him and spoke gently into his ear. The sound of her voice was vastly different than it had been. The alluring gravel and enticing rhythms he’d grown accustomed to had been replaced by a profound sadness and calm resignation. Her voice sounded small and sincere. “Dean,” she said. “I need you to listen to me, now, OK? I need you to stop painting. I’m going to help you, I promise, but whatever you do, you can’t touch the paints.”

He turned into her and pressed his brow against hers. “But you need my help. You’re sick. You’ll die if I don’t.” His voice hitched and he could feel warm tears drip down his cheek. He opened his eyes and looked at her radiance. She was so beautiful with her vibrant, rich blue hurricanes and rainbow patterns wavering and rippling everywhere.

“No Dean. I won’t. And I’m going to save you, but you can’t paint anymore or else you’ll finish the transfer, and if that happens, even I will not be able to save you. I have to find a way to stop you from bleeding any more, even without painting you’re still transferring yourself to me.” She brushed his tears away with her fingertips, and without a glance she wiped them on her shirt.

He truly tried to understand what she was saying, but it didn’t make sense. She’d hurt him horribly for not painting before. Why would she want him to stop all of the sudden when she was ill? “But you said I needed to,” he started arguing.

She looked at him, trying to get through to him. “Dean,” she said with a quick thought. “Sam doesn’t want you to do this. You need to stop for Sammy, OK?”

Dean looked at her for a thoughtful moment. “Who’s Sammy?” he asked finally.

* *

Sam Winchester was a determined man and come hell or high water he was going to get his brother back. Cleo saw a fire in his eyes for the first time in days. He was all movement and action. He’d spent some time going through his weapons in the trunk of his car, something that Cleo was utterly astounded by. She’d never seen such a motley arsenal in her life, and she realized for the first time that his job was a far cry from creeping around in dark corners with digital recorders and meters, guiding lost spirits into The Light. His job was brutal, and dangerous. It terrified her and made her extremely sad for these boys whose lives involved such violence.

Cleo looked over the mass of items. “What’s this for?” she asked.

“The salt? Salt is your basic spirit repellent. They hate it worse than slugs do,” he smiled grimly. He picked out a large blade.

“That looks, uh, sharp,” she said.

“Pure silver,” he explained. “I don’t have a skean, but I’m betting that it’s not the type of blade that is as important as it being silver. Silver is deadly to a lot of creatures: black dogs, shapeshifters, revenants, just to name a few.” He looked at Cleo who was gaping.

“I had no idea, Sam. How do you boys do this day in and day out,” she asked quietly.

Sam’s shoulders dropped a little. “I think that’s something that every hunter asks himself on a regular basis.” He continued rummaging and opened a case and grabbed a handful of silver bullets from it and started loading a gun.

“More silver?” she asked. Sam nodded and continued to work deftly. “So are there a lot of you?” she asked, “people who hunt these things?”

“We’re not the only ones, but I wouldn’t say it’s a common profession. The pay and benefits are terrible,” he said with a dry, humorless laugh. “Still, there are several people out there trying to keep the rest as safe as they can.” He closed the trunk of the Impala, sheathed the knife and tucked the gun into his waistband.

“Thank you for that, Sam,” Cleo said, her face shattered with sympathy.

Sam nodded a little in acknowledgement. “Won’t mean a thing if I don’t get Dean back,” he said and moved to get back in the car.

“You’ll get him back, Sam. Let’s keep going,” she said.

* *

“Sam is your brother. He’s the most important thing in the world to you, and I’m going to help you get him back. But you must do what I say for a little while longer,” Leana said. She helped him rise and got him settled on the mattress. Tears kept dripping from Dean’s eyes, but he made no response. There was a huge hole in him that he could not seem to fill. If he once had a brother, he didn’t understand why he couldn’t remember him or why he wasn’t with him. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands trying to hold back the descending darkness. There was nothing good in his world anymore except Leana and she was dying, too. Because of him. The guilt was overwhelming and he could not fend off his grief and self-condemnation.

Leana knew she would have to make some decisions and act quickly. Her personal inner struggle was over. Though, unlike Dean, she remembered everything. She knew what she was. She knew what had happened. She knew how she’d been altered, and none of it mattered more than putting right this wrong that she had done. She would not let an innocent man die. But she didn’t exactly know how to save him, either. As Dean rocked back and forth weeping silently, she sat next to him and laid her hand on his back and rubbed gentle circles trying to offer him what solace she could. Their connection was still open, and he was still bleeding into her, but she knew he didn’t have more than a couple of hours before his darkness would be complete. She tried to think of her options.

She knew she could not simply sever the connection, since Dean would stay locked in his present state. She had almost all of his life-force contained within her. If she reversed everything and returned him to himself she would have to be with him to do it. And once the transfer was complete she would be herself again, and she would kill him on the spot and then go back to killing others. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to make sure she never killed again, but she didn’t know how to do that, either. But as she sat there thinking about it, another blue lotus shaped fractal slowly bled from him. “There has to be a way,” she said aloud.

Dean stopped rocking and looked at her, desolate and bereft. “Did I really have a brother?”

Leana was deep in thought. She looked at him. “Yes,” she said. “You have a brother. He was a big pain in my ass, in fact…” she said and stopped with a sudden thought. Sam had been a huge pain in her ass because he had been able to get the doctors to stop everything cold. They had done something to Dean’s brain that had ceased the flow between them. She got up. “It’s not a cure, but it will give us more time to find a way,” she explained, even though she knew he hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. “Come on Dean. We have to go.”

She helped Dean up and got him moving out the door. It took some time because he shuffled languidly and seemed fearful of each new room they encountered. When they reached the door to outside, he had clutched her in a panic. “Don’t make me go out there. It’s dark, please let me stay here. It’s too dark,” he pleaded with her.

The muse looked him in the eye, “Don’t be scared, Dean. I’m here. As long as I’m around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you. OK?” She led Dean cautiously out to the car.

* *

Sam answered on the first ring. Even behind the wheel of the car he was still all movement and kinetic energy. “Caleb, what do you got?”

“Your friend is right. There is a legend that the poet killed a Dark Muse. He used a silver blade, but the only other information that I was able to dig up concerns succubus lore itself. The strongest succubi can only be killed by those they are draining. Dark Muses are some of the fiercest of their kind, so it looks like the only way she’s going to go down is with a silver knife to the heart by the person she’s currently affecting, which is why Robert Burns apparently succeeded.”

Sam gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “So Dean’s going to have to do it?” Sam huffed.

“Yeah, and if he’s under her control, I’m not sure how you are going to convince him to do that. I’m telling you, man, they are extremely hard to take down. Such as it is, though, that’s what we’re looking at.” Caleb said. “I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you.”

“It’s something,” Sam said bleakly. “Thanks Caleb. We still have to find him. We’re checking a few more places. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“Ok Sam, good luck,” said Caleb.

Sam snapped the phone shut. “Fuck!”

* *

Dr. Rania Liron sat at her desk. It was after 9:00pm, but she didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to lie in bed and have to think. She had another case file in front of her, and this is exactly where she wanted to be, buried in work with tangible, concrete, quantifiable data in front of her. She had no time to react as the door flew open and she was propelled back against the wall. Her brain and gut failed to communicate and she felt a see-sawing lurch of fear and revulsion when Leana popped her head in.

“Sorry for the dramatic entrance, but I couldn’t have you trying to call for help,” she explained. She gripped something just out of Rania’s view and pulled. It was Dean. Rania couldn’t respond, since she’d been rendered mute again, and her limbs would not leave the wall, but she couldn’t help but feel the smart of tears behind her eyes at the sight of him. He was unsteady and filthy, unshaven and unkempt. The paint that spattered him from head to toe only set off how desperately pale he was. His arms and hands were completely covered as though he’d been wading up to his elbows in paint. But none of that compared to the despondency and hopelessness she saw in his face. When she’d seen him at his worst before, he’d been fighting with every ounce of his being. There was no fight, now. Whatever this thing had done to him, it had broken him. She glared at Leana, because that’s all she could do.

“I’m sorry,” said Leana, shutting the door behind her. The door shimmered for a moment and then disappeared entirely. Rania stared with round, frightened eyes and watched Leana guide Dean to a chair and sit him down gently. “I need you to help me with Dean. I need to you to fix him for me. I am going to let you down, but if you scream, try to escape, or call for help in any way, I will toss you back onto that wall and I’ll kill him right in front of your eyes.” It was an empty threat, and she knew it, but she needed to get her to help Dean. “I mean it. I won’t hurt you or do anything if you only just help him, OK?” She watched Rania blink once and took that as a yes. Leana nodded. “OK, then,” she said and released her.

Rania slid to the floor and took a moment to collect herself. She got to her feet warily and put her hands up as though she were being held at gunpoint. She cleared her throat, testing to make sure she had a voice again. “Wh—what do you want from me?” she asked.

“Just stay calm and help Dean.” Leana stood back so that she could go to her patient.

Rania knelt down and took his pulse. “What did you do to him?” she said looking at Leana, but she wouldn’t answer. Rania checked his coloring and gently pinched his skin. He was dehydrated for sure. “Dean,” she said. “Dean, can you hear me?” His red-rimmed, morose eyes met hers, but he didn’t respond. “Dean, can you tell me what hurts?”

Dean put his head in his hands and tried to stifle a sob. “The sadness will last forever. The light’s all gone. _Everything_ is gone,” he said miserably. He looked at her again with utterly heartbroken eyes. “Did I have a brother? I can’t remember.”

Rania looked at him with horror. “Dean?” She turned and faced Leana, “What the fuck did you do to him?” she said losing complete grip on her professionalism. Leana stepped forward and put her hand up.

“I don’t have time to explain it, and you wouldn’t understand or believe it anyway, so I just need you to do whatever it was that you did to him last time he was here. I need you do that thing to his brain again,” she said.

“Electroconvulsive Therapy?” she blew out a haughty breath. “No. No way. Just leave him with me, and I’ll look after him. I won’t say anything to anyone about you. Just leave, now.”

“I’m not leaving, and you are doing this procedure. It’s the only thing that will save him, you are just going to have to trust me on this. I’m sorry, but you have no choice. So let’s just go to where ever it is that you do this and do it right now.”

Rania could feel Leana forcing her limbs to work against her will. As the door suddenly re-materialized, she started stumbling toward it. She tried to tell Leana to stop, but she had no voice again. “I’ll give you your voice back when we get to where we’re going. Just keep moving.” Leana helped Dean up and the three of them moved quietly through the corridors. When Rania stopped in front of the ECT room, she motioned that she didn’t have a key. Leana touched the door and it opened. Once the three were inside, Leana touched the door again and it wavered and disappeared entirely, shutting them inside. Leana released Rania from her silence. “OK, now do it.”

Rania coughed and rubbed her scratchy throat, staring defiantly at Leana. “Who the hell are you?”

“Well, I’m not Mother Theresa, I don’t have patience for this so get a fuckin’ move on, sister.” Leana wasn’t even sure where that outburst came from, but it felt right. She pointed to the machinery. “Get started,” she insisted.

“You don’t understand,” Rania said, backing away from the muse. “This procedure takes several people. We need an anesthesiologist. I’m not performing this with Dean awake.”

Leana helped Dean up onto the table and had him lie down. She whispered something in his ear and he suddenly went limp. “We don’t need an anesth…whatever it was that you said. See? He sleeps.”

“What the hell did you do?” Rania went to Dean and tried to rouse him.

“He won’t wake until I tell him to. He’ll be fine,” the muse said.

“We don’t have the muscle relaxant. His bones could possibly break if we do this without it. At least let me go get some, please.” Rania begged.

“Do you have to leave the room to get it?”

“Yes, but it won’t take long,” Rania promised.

Leana stood firm. “Forget it. I’ll do what I can to make his muscles relaxed.”

“Please don’t make me do this to him,” the doctor asked with tears welling in her eyes.

“You don’t understand,” Leana said with her patience spent. “This is the only way to save him. I’m sorry that I’m putting you through this. I’m sorry that I’m putting _him_ through this, but it’s the only way to stop what’s happening to him. If you don’t do it, he’ll be dead in about an hour. I have over three thousand years experience with what’s happening to him. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. Do this now or he dies.”

Rania wept as she applied the electrodes to Dean’s head and hooked him to the heart monitor. She studied the monitor and shook her head. “No. No way. He’s too weak for this. Don’t put him through this,” she tried one last time. Leana didn’t answer. She simply stood at the side of the table and held Dean’s hand and softly caressed his face. Leana looked at the doctor expectantly and nodded toward the machine. Rania inserted the mouth guard and turned the dials on the machine until the correct settings had been achieved. “It’s that green button right there. Press it and hold it down for exactly two seconds. I won’t do it. This is going to be entirely on you,” she said, her voice clotted with hatred. “If your magic doesn’t hold, and he seizes, you’re going to have to help me make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. Don’t hold him down, but make sure he stays on the table.” She took her spot by the other side of the gurney and braced herself for what was about to happen.

Leana gaped a moment at Rania, but she didn’t force her to do it. Leana sighed and looked at the green button. She bent down to Dean, kissed him and spoke softly. “You’re going to be all right, I promise. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. I’m sorry for this.” She looked at the green button and sighed. With a nod of self-encouragement she pushed the button and held it down for exactly the two seconds that Rania had instructed her to.

Four hundred volts applied directly to the brain is stronger than Succubus magic.

The moment Leana depressed the button, Dean let out an involuntary wheezing growl and his eyelids pinched tightly from the shock. Then his eyes went wide and stark as his body became tonically rigid. Rania tried to concentrate on Dean, but Leana began to wail in distress. The muse caught his arm as it flailed out and panicked as she looked at his hands that were frozen into claws.

“No!” she sobbed. “Dean, I’m sorry!” As Dean entered the clonic phase of his seizure, Leana howled non-stop. Rania wasn’t sure if it was guilt or some kind of empathetic pain, but Leana was physically shaking along with the patient. She noticed when Dean would have a particularly strong convulsion in a certain limb, for instance, Leana would have a corresponding reaction in the same limb, just on a smaller scale. Dean’s body jerked with spasm after spasm and Leana pelted him with kisses anywhere she saw movement, as though that would somehow make it all right. She moved up to his head and began chanting a strange, desperate ululation into his ear, but it didn’t stop the seizure. She went back to storming him with kisses as she wept bitterly, telling him over and over again how sorry she was. Rania couldn’t grasp what the hell was happening with this girl, but she couldn’t spare any more thought on it because Dean suddenly started to aspirate. She quickly turned him onto his side as vomit began spurting out around the mouth guard. Rania immediately removed it and got the vomit out of his airway as the seizure wound down. As Dean relaxed, Leana, too, went limp, breathing heavy with her head buried in Dean’s chest. She was sobbing quietly. Rania checked Dean’s vitals. His pulse was rapid and weak and he was in a complete postictal state, unresponsive to any outside stimuli. Rania quietly examined him for any possible broken bones, but she didn’t find anything overt. She really wouldn’t know for sure until Dean was awake and could communicate any potential fractures.

Leana finally lifted her head and looked at Dean. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t know it would be like this.” Her eyes were wet. She ran her hands through his paint speckled hair. “Shhhhh,” she cooed. “It’s going to be all right. At least it’s stopped now. I’ll find a way to fix you. I swear it.” She looked at Rania. “It worked. He’s not bleeding into me anymore. Thank you. I have to take him with me, now,” she said as she unhooked the heart monitor and electrodes. “I’ll need your help to get him to the car.”

Rania’s eyes bugged. “Are you fucking insane? Are you trying to kill him? Do you have any idea what you’re doing? This man needs immediate medical attention. You can’t take him.”

“Actually, I’m sane for the first time in three thousand years. I’m trying to save him. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but I know we won’t find the answers in this hospital. If he needs medical attention, then that’s fine. You will come with us and help him as you can. Other than that, the discussion is over. Now help me get him to the car!” Leana grabbed Rania by the wrist and shoved her toward Dean. “Now watch him while I go get a wheelchair,” she said. She re-materialized the door and passed through it and dematerialized behind her. She returned a moment later with a chair.

“His pulse is too fast,” the doctor warned. “He also needs fluids, he’s dehydrated,” she said.

Leana sighed. She knew Rania was right, but there was little she could do right then. “I have water where we’re going,” she said.

“He needs it intravenously. He can’t drink if he’s unconscious,” the doctor said.

“If you can pick up what you need on the way out, fine. Otherwise we’ll have to make do with what we have back at the hall,” Leana said. “Let’s go.”

Somehow they made it out to the car without being stopped, but Leana wouldn’t let Rania go to any other floor for the supplies that she wanted, so Dean was going to have to be coerced to drink when he came around.

Rania had no idea what was happening or how she had ended up in this nightmare. She sat in the backseat of the car trying to hold Dean steady. There wasn’t much she could do for him with no equipment or supplies. She hoped she wouldn’t have to watch him die. Leana weaved them through the downtown streets for some time. Rania wanted to make sure Dean’s airways were clear so she tried to reposition him with his head in her lap, but she felt him hit something hard in the pocket of her lab coat. She reached in to move it out of the way and gasped a little when she realized what it was.

It was her cell phone.

She quietly kept her eyes on Leana who was concentrating on getting them to where ever it was that she was taking them. Rania very quietly scrolled through her recent phone calls and clicked a button and stuck the phone back in her pocket.

* *

Sam felt the weight of the world was crushing him as they finished searching the pottery studio by the park. The momentum that Sam had going from the earlier breakthrough in regards to the weapon and method of killing the succubus had evaporated. His exhaustion was complete and he didn’t know how he was going to go on. Cleo sensed his decline and tried to offer him what little comfort she could. She patted his shoulder. Before she could say anything to him, though, his cell phone went off. He looked at the ID.

“Hello. Rania?” he answered.


	11. Killing Me Softly With His Song

Three thousand years was a long time to live, but for Leana Sheehan it suddenly wasn’t near long enough. Then again, she felt like she’d just been born. Well, _reborn_ , at least. This was an opportunity that she did not want to waste. It was a gift. She certainly didn’t want her new life to be the dark stain that her past life had been. Hope was a foreign concept to her, but she figured that this must be exactly what it feels like. And she felt alive—a little sapling shrugging off the grains of earth and reaching for the goddamned sun—alive. She’d never shone with her own luster, but as she looked at her hands on the steering wheel she could see them teeming with light, a living kaleidoscope that twisted, pulsed and vibrated in time to her every thought. Each fractal was a perfect gem coruscating and quivering with hope and expectation. She was looking forward to what life might hold for her now. She would find a way to save Dean and make him whole again without undoing what he’d made of her, and they’d both walk away from this better for the experience. The prospect of living life this way, being this person, made her as giddy as a child hopping into bed in winter with visions of sugar plums. Maybe she could inspire people for real. Maybe she could help them. _Save them._ If given enough time she could maybe wash clean everything she’d done wrong by saving people, hunting things. What kind of hunter would she make? _Hello—a fucking awesome one! Fuckin’—A rights, sister_ , she thought as she drove.

The possibilities were endless, and she wanted so desperately to be that force of good in the world, to kill as many evil sons of bitches as she could. She just needed some time to think about it. Everything was happening so fast, though, it was hard to center herself. The doctor was sitting in the back seat, bleating away at her a mile a minute. Leana’s head had begun to swim with the constant nagging. The only reason she hadn’t stopped on a corner and booted Rania from the car was that she knew Dean needed help that she would not be able to provide for him in time. The doctor needed to stay for now. Once she could get Dean back home and get him resting, she’d be able to think up a brilliant plan to save both of them. She glanced in the rearview mirror and watched him as he lay with his eyes half-open, looking at nothing and taking quick, shallow breaths. He was so pale and drawn. Paint splashed up and down his arms and gobbed in his hair. The sight of him made her heart ache. She’d done this to him. She was responsible. But she’d fix it one way or another. Fear bubbled up, but she forced herself to swallow it as she focused her eyes back on the road, driving as quickly as she could. Time. She’d idled away more than three thousand years of it and could not, for the life of her, seem to get the few hours she needed to collect her thoughts and find a better way out of this mess.

* *

“ _Hello?” Sam repeated. He was just about to hang up and chalk the call up to Rania pocket-dialing him on accident, when he heard some background talk._

Rania tried to settle Dean so that he could breathe easier, but at the same time she was trying to be careful not to jostle the phone in her pocket. “Leana, you need to think about what you’re doing,” she said, praying that Sam could hear and that the call had not simply been forwarded to voicemail. “If you really want to help Dean, you need to drive us back to the hospital. Please.” She tried to talk as loudly as she could without being completely transparent. “Leana, are you listening?”

_Sam held his breath. He heard her say the name twice now. Rania was talking to Leana. Cleo was standing right next to him and she took a breath like she was going to say something, but he held up his hand and shushed her, focusing all of his attention on the phone and trying to make out each word._

“Yeah, I hear you,” Leana said. “But you’re wrong. The hospital can’t help him.” Leana looked at her in the rearview mirror. “How’s he doing?” she asked.

Rania looked at Dean. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t responsive yet. “Dean,” she shook his shoulder a little “Can you hear me?” He blinked but he didn’t look at her.  His pulse had never recovered from the seizure.  His heart was galloping wildly, and his breath was labored. “He’s not doing well, Leana. Please let me help him.”

_Sam felt his heart plummet hearing Rania’s words. He began racing toward the car, even though he had no idea yet where they were. He just had to get on the move. Rania had dialed him on purpose, he was sure, and he knew she was feeding him whatever information she could. He trusted that she would continue as long as she was able to. Cleo ran as fast as her flaccid body would allow. She didn’t know what was happening, but she knew it was big, and she knew she wouldn’t leave Sam alone with no help._

Leana pulled the car into the parking lot of the concert hall. She took a long cleansing breath. Finally, she would be able to let Dean get some rest while she made plans. There had to be a way to fix this. She’d make sure that Dean recovered and then maybe she and Dean could team up and do some hunts together in the future. She’d learned a lot in her three thousand years, she would teach him everything she knew. There were ways and means to bring down creatures that no hunter had yet discovered. Leana would make sure to teach him all of the neat tricks she knew. Dean had to be all right. She didn’t want to think of the alternative. Leana sighed and tried to put it out of her head. It was going to be OK. Getting Dean safe and well was her focus, then she’d handle everything else. She’d look after him. That was her job.

Rania glared at Leana in disbelief. “Abramson Hall? You’re bringing Dean here? What do you think you’re going to accomplish here?” she said as loudly as she could, partly because she was truly outraged and partly to make sure that Sam could hear her.

_Sam peeled out into traffic. “They’re at the concert hall. Fuck! I knew I had heard something there. Fuck!” he said disparaging himself._

“ _We’re not too far away, Sam, just drive safe, please!” Cleo said, wincing as he nearly side-swiped a car while passing illegally._

Leana pulled the car parallel to the backstage door and away from the view of the street. She turned off the ignition and opened the stage door with a wave of her hand. Opening the back door by Dean’s feet, she addressed the doctor. “Help me get him inside.”

“Dean, can you hear me?” Rania tried to rouse him. His eyes were closed again and his chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath. Rania examined his fingers. They were covered in paint, but she could still see that the nail beds were dusky. Something wasn’t right, his heart rate was far too fast. “Leana, please. Listen to me. Something’s wrong. I told you he was too weak for this.”

“Help me get him inside or I’ll mute you and leave you stuck to this seat, I swear I will,” Leana warned. She’d had all she could take of the doctor, but at the same time, she felt the bite of fear as she watched Dean’s chest heaving rapidly. She just had to get him inside and clear her head long enough to be able to think of what to do.

“All right,” Rania said. “Just be careful with him.” Leana gently pulled Dean’s legs while Rania slid along supporting his head and back. She looked at Leana bitterly but complied for Dean’s sake. He’d be without any viable assistance if she were glued to the seat of a car.

Together the two struggled to get Dean inside. Rania was a very slight woman and she was trying to keep Dean’s torso off the floor. As they worked their way over the stage toward the stairs by the proscenium, Dean started to wake up and struggle against them.

“Put him down. Put him down!” Rania said losing her grip on him. As she struggled to get Dean on the floor without hurting him, she felt her cell phone in her pocket snap shut, breaking whatever connection she had achieved with Sam. She just hoped that he had picked up and that he had been able to hear where they were. She couldn’t spare anymore thought for it, though. “Dean,” she said as he looked around in complete confusion. He looked from Rania to Leana trying to catch his breath. “Dean, look at me,” she said reaching for his wrist to check his pulse. Disoriented and fearful, he tried to pull away. He didn’t appear to recognize the doctor at all. “It’s OK, Dean. You’re safe,” she assured him and went to take his pulse again, but he cried out and tried to scramble away.

“Dean,” Leana said. “I’ve got you.” She caught him as he started to crab away, and held him firm against her breast. “Come on, Dean, now breathe with me, nice and slow, OK?” she said again soothingly.

Rania listened as Leana began to sing strangely in his ear, a bizarre combination of soft, sensual musical fluctuations. He relaxed into her and shut his eyes, but his breathing continued in triple time. “What are you doing to him?” she asked.

Leana didn’t answer. All of her attention was on Dean. She was able to tangibly perceive his physical distress, feeling it without being directly affected by it. She didn’t need the doctor to tell her that his condition was grave. This couldn’t be happening. She needed more time. Dean kept gasping as she tried to sing it away. She knew that helping him this way would take far more time than she felt Dean had. It took over a day to fix him last time and he hadn’t been hurt nearly as badly as he was now. Leana could feel him dying in her arms. He didn’t have enough life left to combat whatever complication he’d developed. This was her fault—her responsibility. She’d taken too much from him. She squeezed her eyes tight as she continued singing to him. Everything was unraveling, and if she could just make this go away they’d both be able to enjoy their lives. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to lose what she had found in him. They’d come so far together.

“Leana,” Rania said slow and deliberately. “Listen to me, I’m begging you. Dean’s in serious trouble right now. If we can’t get his heart-rate under control, he’s going to go into cardiac arrest. Do you understand what I’m saying?” She reached for Dean but he shrunk away from her touch and continued to clutch his Muse. “I need you to tell him to listen to me and let me help him.” Leana continued to sing softly. Rania watched the two rocking together to see if Leana could have any affect at all, but Dean continued to wheeze in distress, and she could see his pulse fluttering in his neck. Rania looked at Leana and tried a different approach. “Leana, you came all the way to the hospital to try and get him some help. I know you care about him. I know you don’t want him to die. But if we don’t get his heart beating properly again, that’s what’s going to happen. Tell him to let me help him.”

Leana looked at Rania with agony in her eyes and then bent down to Dean and whispered in his ear for a moment. “The doctor wants to help you, Dean. It’s all right,” she said aloud.

Rania came close again.  “Dean, can you hear me?” she asked taking his hand.  He nodded a little as he struggled for each breath.  Rania shook her head after taking his pulse, not liking what she found.  She bent down and placed her ear right over his heart and grimaced.  “Oh, fuck me,” she said in horror.  She sat back up and regarded Dean.  “Dean, OK, now I want you to cough for me. A big cough, from right down here,” she said pressing his diaphragm. She demonstrated by coughing harshly. “Like that,” she said. He produced a weak and feeble version. Rania challenged him. “Come on, Dean, you can do better than that. A big cough, now.” He tried again with better success. “Good. Keep doing that for a moment or two.” Dean kept coughing. Rania kept her hand on his wrist, monitoring his pulse as he coughed.

“What’s wrong with him?” Leana asked.

“He was in no condition to undergo ECT.  The shock affected his heart’s rhythm and it’s caused a complication called ventricular tachycardia.”  Rania stopped short at Leana’s vacant stare.  “An irregular heartbeat,” she explained.  “If it’s not treated, which, by the way, we could have done at the hospital,” she said eying daggers at Leana.  “If it’s not treated, it is a life threatening condition.  I’m trying to get his heart back into its proper rhythm, but if he goes into V-FIB he’s not going to make it without defibrillation.”  She turned to Dean who was still breathing rapidly. “Dean, now I want you to try something else. Dean, look at me.” Dean’s eyes wandered slowly from Leana to Rania. “I’m going to sit you up a bit and I want you to bear down, like you are going to the bathroom.” Dean, despite his confusion and physical distress, still managed to give her a classic _WTF?_ -look. “I know,” Rania said. “It’s weird, just do it anyway. Here we go.” She supported Dean and got him into a sitting position. She demonstrated again by holding her diaphragm and squeezing. She had Dean mimic her. “Good, again,” Rania prompted. “Keep doing…” She didn’t get a chance to finish, because they were suddenly flooded in bright light. Someone had turned on the stage lights. Rania glanced around, but the light shining directly on her made it too difficult to see anything beyond the apron of the stage.

Leana, however, didn’t need her eyes to perceive who the intruder was. She looked up and sighed. “Sammy.”

Sam slowly approached the stage. “Get away from him, bitch,” Sam said from darkness that edged the orchestra pit.

“Sammy, you got this all wrong,” she said. With a wave of her hand the house lights came up to full and Sam was revealed standing firm, legs slightly parted. His expression was set and lethal. A dagger glinted in his hand.

“Don’t be stupid, Sam,” Leana said. “You can’t hurt me.” Without warning the dagger flew out of Sam’s grasp and into Leana’s upraised hand.” She studied the blade. “Silver? Nice,” she said. She turned to Cleo who had seen Dean on the stage floor and had come barreling to the rescue. “Stay put,” she said to her. Cleo stopped cold, unable to move her feet from the floor. “Sorry,” Leana said. “I need some time to think for fuck’s sake.” She held her hand out toward Sam who had come up the other stairway and was now just a few paces away. “Easy tiger,” she warned. “You stay put, too, Sammy.”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he spat as he fought against the force that held him firmly to the floor. “What did you do to Dean?” he asked looking at his brother who had tipped over onto his side and was moaning lightly with each gasp of air he tried to suck in. Rania put her attention back on him and tried to lay him flat so that his airway was unobstructed.

Rania looked at Sam helplessly. “We need a hospital right now. He’s not going to make it if we don’t have a defibrillator. Leana had me perform ECT without any anesthetic or relaxant. He was dehydrated, weak and in no condition to be put through it. I tried to tell her. He’s in VTAC, and we’re running out of time,” she said as Sam’s face went from horrified to outrage as Rania spoke. “Sam, we don’t have much time,” she said again with a tremor to her voice.

Before Sam could react, Leana threw her hands up. “Everyone shut up!” she screamed. “Just shut up,” she practically sobbed. No one made a sound. No one could. Cleo put her hand to her mouth in surprise. There was something she was desperately trying to say, but nothing was coming out. She started motioning with her arms, waving them at Dean and then up toward the exit.

“None of you understand. I had to do it. He’d have died without it. I’m trying to save him,” she sighed and her shoulders fell. “I’m trying to save us both.” She quieted and went to Dean. Rania was bent down with her ear to his chest trying to listen to his heartbeat. Rania grabbed Leana’s hand and pointed to his chest trying to tell her that it wasn’t good. She knew that, though. Dean’s heart was breaking. Three thousand years and it was all coming down to this moment, every artist she’d ever touched, every life she’d maimed and brutalized, every soul she’d tortured into being her thrall. She was beyond redemption, she knew that. She wasn’t seeking it, she was just seeking one pinprick of light to unsully the complete blackness of her life. He would not die because of her. He was her responsibility. She would look out for him, watch over him. She would take care of this. Period. She stole one more quiet moment as she softly stroked Dean’s head.

“Well…shit,” she said with rueful resignation. “I’m sorry. I know we should have stayed at the hospital. I thought it would be like last time. I thought that I would have time to fix you, that you would be all right. I was just trying to get you to stop bleeding into me.” She looked at Dean for a moment and then softly shrugged, making some internal decision. She began shivering slightly. A tear fell from her eye and she knelt over Dean and put her head to his heart, listening. He had only minutes left, she could feel it. She pulled him away from Rania, leaving her stuck to the floor several paces away. She wanted to get away from everyone and spend just a few last moments with him. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean for this to happen to you. I guess I make a shitty protagonist, huh?” she smiled grimly. “I wanted to be a big goddamned hero or something, but three thousand years can’t be undone all in a day, I guess, right?”

It was utterly silent in the hall except for Dean’s gasps. He looked at her sadly through heavy lids. His chest continued to heave in its struggle and his lips were a dusty blue. She sat up but remained poised over him. “I really did want to save us both. I wish I had been given the time to try and think everything through. I’m sorry, Dean,” her voice hitched and more tears fell.

Dean weakly reached up and touched her cheek, trying to tell her it was all right. He couldn’t get any words out but his face spoke his compassion and understanding and acceptance. Sam was completely horrified by what he saw. Dean was trying to comfort the very person who was killing him. He’d never felt so violated in his entire life, seeing Dean’s look at her like that. Sam struggled against the force holding him to the floor, his own chest rising and falling rapidly in terror and in loathing.

Leana couldn’t hold back her sobs. “Don’t do that, Dean. Don’t tell me goodbye like that. Don’t tell me you forgive me. Don’t tell me it’s all right. What I did was horrible. I know that, now. But I’m going to make this right. I promise.” She wiped the tears off her face and sighed. “Thank you, Dean. Thank you so much for what you’ve given me.” She buried her face in his chest and sobbed. He put his hand on her head and tried to say something. He tried a couple of times, but his breath was coming in quicker hitches and all he could do was shake his head back and forth negatively. Leana sat up and laughed despite her tears and pulled him close against her heart. He looked at her with pleading eyes. “You’re just saying that because I compelled you,” she ran her fingers through his hair. “I don’t want it to end this way, either,” she said. “Believe me. This is the only way,” she said. “I don’t regret it,” she assured him. She picked up Sam’s knife and put it in Dean’s hands. His eyes went wide, finally understanding her intent. He shook his head again. “Yes,” she said and helped him hold the dagger, guiding his hands up to her heart. “We’ll take it slow. I’m going to need just enough time to give back your gift. I want you to know that it meant the world to me.”

She looked at Sam. “I’m going to free you, but you cannot touch us until the transfer is complete, Sammy. I need you to promise me. This is to protect him, not me. Do you understand?” Sam was beginning to get the picture, as unbelievable as it was. He nodded. Leana released him. “And Sammy, after the transfer, if there is anything left, it won’t be good. You’re going to have to do whatever necessary in order to hold it back until this is finished. You got that?”

He cleared his throat and coughed. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“OK,” Leana said. She looked at Dean, her face serene and peaceful. Pure devotion filled her eyes as they swept over him. “If I change, please remember me like this forever, OK? This is who I wanted to be. I was happiest like this. Truly.” She leaned into the dagger, allowing it to penetrate. She winced and shuddered but pressed closer and closer toward Dean, using the force of her own bodyweight to slide down the blade. She had to hold his hands steady because he tried to break free. When her chest met the hilt, she kissed Dean and let out a wet gasp of pain and sorrow. Dean’s struggle for breath became even greater the more agitated and distressed he became. He tried to break free in order to pull the knife away, but there was no strength to his limbs. “It’s OK,” she gasped. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Blood started flowing around the hilt. She looked at the wound and watched her blood flow, trying to time things just right. She held onto Dean, gripping him tightly. Pulling him up close to her until his head rested against her shoulder, she turned into his ear and started to sing.

The song began as a haunting murmur but slowly grew in volume. Sam watched as a glowing blue aura began to flicker around Leana. It seemed alive, pulsing and rippling as if with independent thought. Rainbow colored vortices stirred and convoluted themselves into patterns so intricate that they bewildered the eye. The vibrancy and intensity of the aura grew along with the volume of the Muse’s melody. Suddenly the song changed in tempo and tone and both the aura and Dean started to react. He jerked as the blue aura collected in a kind of bottleneck between Leana and Dean and then quite abruptly it spilled forth, becoming a river of oscillating light that poured over him like liquid stained glass. Fractal after fractal, theme after theme, gushed into him. His back arched and his chest continued to heave. The blue light surrounded him, lapped against him, shrouded him entirely. Dean started to glow brightly while the light around Leana began to diminish. Yet she kept on singing clear and strong, holding Dean as he bucked and quaked with the onslaught of his own life flowing back into him.

Leana also began to shiver and seethe with spasms as his force and influence left her. As the last of the blue fractals fell from her, the light in her died entirely. Only a tinge of pulsing blue could be seen as her skin caught the reflection of Dean’s aureole. She released a blood curdling scream and fell to the floor, taking Dean along with her. The magic that held the other two women to the floor faltered and Rania and Cleo were both released from where they were being held, but both stayed rooted in shock and awe as they watched Dean’s blue life-force fuse with its owner and seemingly dissipate as it melted into him.

Leana moaned and felt for the hilt of the dagger that was sticking out of her chest. She laid there blinking slowly for a few seconds and then reaching up she pulled the dagger from her chest with a guttural growl of pain and hatred. She rose to her knees and balanced herself as she bled profusely. She dabbed at blood that was dripping from her mouth and looked down at her chest as though to assess the damage. Sam started to approach her, but Leana grasped Dean by the hair and, with a sudden snarl, she pulled him up and held the knife against his throat. Dean was completely pliant in her arms and she turned him to face her. His lids were slightly open, but the eyes were completely vacant. They looked right through her, unseeing. She regarded him with unfathomable hatred, and when she spat her blood in his face, there was no reflexive movement from him at all.

“Oh Dean,” the succubus seethed with a bloody smile. “I don’t know how you ever made it this far in life with that attitude.” She adjusted him in her arms and pulled him against her and spoke in his ear. “Shall we make this a proper dramatic tragedy?” she mocked and pretended to wait for his answer. “How about we see who bleeds out first,” she hissed. Her eyes were baleful and completely devoid of humanity. The Dark Muse poised the knife over his heart and raised it to plunge it deep when three shots rang out. The first bullet hit the hand holding the knife, and she dropped both the dagger and Dean in surprise. The other two struck her in the chest, propelling her backwards. She sprawled on her back several feet away. Sam lowered his weapon and swept up the knife as he ran to her.

It took her a moment to get enough energy to speak. She winced as Sam bore down on her with the knife, but she remained all bravado as she grabbed his wrist and fended off his attack. “Bullets kind of tickled, there, Sammy,” the Dark Muse said as blood oozed from her mouth. A ghastly smile split her face and she reached up with her other hand and gripped Sam by the throat. “Your precious brother,” she rolled her eyes. “He loves you so, so much.” She gripped his neck tighter. “Do you see what he did to me? Three thousand years on this earth and he _ruined_ me.” Sam struggled and grabbed at her hand that was squeezing him. “That was all him, Sam, and the only comfort I take is the knowledge that he will poison himself the same way he did me. He’s toxic. He’ll ruin himself. Mark my words.” Her eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as she watched her words sink in. She squeezed his neck fiercely even as she began to choke on her own blood. Sam started to gasp for breath, trying to drive the dagger downward. “Oh Sammy,” she said looking him over and fawning as she gurgled and coughed. “You’re so shiny with your gold.  Let’s make beautiful music together,” she released a chaotic, blood splattered laugh and gripped him tighter.

At first Sam thought he was losing consciousness when halos and auras began to surround everything. He strove to break her grip on his neck. Looking wildly around, he saw Rania and Cleo behind him suddenly swathed in effervescent turquoise and blinding white as they bent over Dean’s royal blue. He looked at Leana who gave him a perverted smile and twitched as she tried to reach her other hand up to draw him closer to her. There was a swell of sudden music that caused all the lights to shimmer and ripple. He could see the sunrise gold of his own aura pulsate and swirl with sparkling drops of pure crystal light as he reached up and desperately grabbed the dagger in her hand.

“You belong to me, now,” the Dark Muse gurgled with a blood speckled smile.

Sam tightened his grip on her wrist. “Good. Then that means I can do this,” he wrenched out. Combining all of his strength and bodyweight, he forced the knife downward, breaking her elbow as it descended and struck her in the heart. Her eyes shot wide and her body flailed as he twisted the knife repeatedly. He continued until she stilled entirely and her eyes dimmed. As he retrieved the blade, the music and lights began to fade and his perceptions returned to normal. Sam watched as her body turned gray and all three thousand years were suddenly revealed. Her eyes fell into her skull and her jaw unhinged and collapsed against her neck. The muse’s skin clung precariously to her desiccated body. Sam shook his head as the music subsided completely.

The sound was gone. The only thing that he could hear was Rania intoning a strange chant just behind him. _Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty—breathe!_ Sam spun around and watched Rania as she resumed chest compressions on his brother’s lifeless body.

“Dean!” he shouted and fell in a skid by his brother’s head.  “No!  Don’t you dare leave me, Dean!  _Don’t you dare do this!_ ”

“Sam, dial 911,” Rania said between counts. “We need a defibrillator. Goddamn it,” she said shaking her head in helpless frustration. She continued her count.

Cleo sprung to life. “That’s what I was trying to say earlier, but Leana stopped me,” she panted. She got up and started down the stairs. “This is a County owned building. There’s an automated defibrillator located at the box-office.” She started to head up the aisle, but Sam was already sprinting past. She heard some glass break as Sam got into the box-office the quickest way he could. Before Cleo could get up there, Sam was already sprinting back with the machine. He barreled onto the stage and started fumbling with the equipment.

“I’ve got this,” Rania said taking the defibrillator from him. “Take over a moment, Sam,” Rania said as she checked the battery in the machine and opened it up, taking out the pads. A recorded voice began speaking, giving instructions on what to do, but Rania was two steps ahead the whole way, pulling Dean’s shirt off and applying the pads to his upper and lower chest.

“Do you need me to do anything?” Sam asked breathlessly.

“No, the machine will read his heart-rate and apply any necessary charge based upon the reading.” Rania moved clear and pulled Sam away. “Stay clear,” she warned. The machine’s voice gave the same warning and applied the charge. Dean’s body jerked. The voice of the machine advised them to begin CPR. Rania watched the machine and began the compressions again, and Sam remained at Dean’s head to give the two breaths. Again the machine warned them to stand clear as it analyzed his heart rhythm and again it warned of an impending shock. Sam held his breath and willed it to work. There was a split second of hope as the machine analyzed, but it merely told them to continue CPR.

“How many times can we do this?” Sam said horrified as his brother jerked from the shock and they resumed CPR. Sam kept his brother’s ashen face tilted to keep the airway open and blew two breaths.

“As many times as he needs. We’re working against the clock, though. It’s already been a few minutes that he’s been in VFIB. He’s had two shocks already, we’re coming up on our third,” she said, her face and lips set with determination. “Come on, Dean,” she said. The machine whirred and a sterile, uncaring woman’s voice told them: _Do not touch the patient. Analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient. Shock advised. Stand clear. Shock will be delivered in 3…2…1. Shock delivered._ Sam watched his brother jerk with the third charge, and the voice went back to her monotone instructions: _Analyzing heart rhythm. It is safe to touch the patient. Begin CPR now._ Rania and Sam changed positions and Sam started compressions.

Cleo had the cell phone to her ear. “They’re on their way,” she said as she watched them, her face pale and devastated. Tears glittered in her eyes.

The click of another reading came from the machine as an anguished silence descended on the three onlookers. The monotone voice of the machine announced the fourth incoming charge: _Do not touch the patient. Shock advised._ _Stand clear. Shock will be delivered in 3…2…1…_


	12. The Song Remains The Same

For all of the brain’s magnificence, with its seemingly unlimited ability to calculate, quantify, compare and create, it had its flaws, and Sam’s brain was flat out lying to him. It could not accept the raw data that his eyes were sending it. As Sam counted off the chest compressions that he’s been administering to his lifeless brother for far too long, his brain kept interpreting the data, rejecting it as inconceivable. His brain made its own course corrections and began sending him false signals. He’d see Dean’s chest move as if with breath. When he’d stop a second to confirm it, he’d see that it simply wasn’t so. He’d look into vacant, lifeless eyes that he would swear he’d seen suddenly blink but, again, a second glance would reveal that his mind was playing the cruelest of tricks on him. As his eyes transmitted images of Dean’s complete stillness and inertia, his brain simply balked and added in what it perceived _must be there_. Sam could not recall a single moment of his entire life in which Dean had not been in motion of some sort. His brain lacked the ability to cope with the unacceptable alternative. And so it lied.

The fourth shock came and went and still Dean’s eyes remained fixed and unseeing. It was more than Sam could bear to look into them as he resumed compressions. His brain quickly calculated the minutes since Dean had gone into V-FIB, and he knew that any hope there may have been was rapidly evaporating. He counted off the chest compressions, and with each count his voice became more and more enraged and broken.

Rania watched Sam as he began to press more aggressively in his despair. “Easy Sam, stay focused. You’ll break his ribs,” she said gently, quietly. She knew that Sam was on the cusp of overwhelming grief. She watched him strive to hold it at bay as he counted off the compressions. Her physician’s posture began its subtle transformation from life-saver to consoler.

Sam glanced up at her but she was just a smear of water and light, tears stealing his vision. Just as well, he thought. He didn’t know how much more his brain could process. Backing off at the thirtieth compression, he watched with blurry vision as Rania blew two breaths. The machine began its cold analysis: _Do not touch the patient. Analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient. Shock not advised._ A horrible thrill shot through Sam. He looked at Rania, reflexively rising to his feet and stepping away in horror. “Shock _not_ advised? Is he gone? Oh god, Dean. Is he gone?!” he looked at the doctor with devastated helplessness. He watched as Rania felt for a pulse.

She looked up amazed. “We got him. We’ve got a pulse,” she said, unbelieving. She checked his breathing. Dean’s chest quivered and he filled his lungs with a rasp. “That’s it, Dean. Another.” Everyone watched as Dean’s chest began to rise and fall on its own. Sam checked and double checked. There was no mistaking that. This was no trick of a brain in denial. Dean was really breathing.

Sam collapsed back onto his knees and took Dean’s hand in his own. “Come on, man. Keep breathing. Don’t fucking do that to me ever again.” Sam was shaking uncontrollably and his teeth started to chatter. His confused brain was trying to combat the stress, misinterpreting his surge of adrenaline and emotions as an illness. The machine took another reading and again advised against a shock. Cleo glanced around.

“What are we going to do about…” she nodded toward Leana’s mummified body. “The EMT’s will be here in a minute.”

Sam looked up. There was blood all over the floor, upstage near Leana’s body. “Jesus,” he moaned, but he did not get up from where his brother lay. He had no strength left. He felt so light-headed that he was not certain he wasn’t going to pass out. All he could do was sit in a daze and watch Dean breathe.

“I’ve got it,” Cleo said. She ran into one of the wings and closed the heavy stage curtain, hiding most of the tell-tales as sirens could be heard stopping out front.

* *

If she didn’t do something soon she knew he was going to drop. He looked like hell, eyes red and sunken, a numb, bewildered expression on his face. His tall body was thin from days on end of little to no food or sleep. “Sam, if you don’t go to my office and get some rest, I’m going to toss an ID bracelet on you and hurl you in the next bed, because that’s where you’re going to end up if you don’t get some sleep. I’m serious, Sam,” Rania said sternly.

Sam sighed but didn’t move. He was folded into a small seat, nestled in between IV poles, oxygen tanks, EEG and telemetry monitors. He’d never seen so many wires and tubes attached to his brother before, and that’s actually saying quite a lot when you consider all the hospital visits since Dean had been old enough to hunt. Cupping Dean’s hand in his own, Sam shook his head. His brother’s hands were still covered in paint. Sam made a mental note to be sure to clean that up for him later. Rania cleared her throat and came over and put her hand on Sam’s shoulder. He looked at his watch. It was now 6:00am. Dean had been brought in over eight hours ago but had not stirred a muscle. “How’s he doing?” he asked. “Why hasn’t he woken up yet?”

Rania looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was paying attention at the moment. They were in a busy ICU, and there was plenty of subdued activity around them despite the hour. “He’s been through a lot,” she said. “He’s had two rounds of ECT in three days, been through VTAC and VFIB, required four shocks to bring back, his brain was without oxygen for at least four minutes and he was dangerously dehydrated—not to mention…” she lowered her voice even further, “not to mention that he was abducted by a crazy succubus, had his life force yanked out and then forcibly returned. He probably hasn’t had any real sleep since this whole thing began a week ago now.” Rania glanced at Dean where he lay unmoving. “This isn’t exactly a scenario that I have much experience with. But with all that, Sam, he’s stable right now. I can’t tell you how encouraged I am. With everything he’s been through, he’s a fighter,” she gently touched Dean’s shoulder. She turned back to Sam and bent to look him in the eye. “Sam, please, you really need some rest.”

“What if he wakes up while I’m not here?” He looked at her like a sad, tired child.

“Then I will come get you immediately.” She tried to hoist the tall, young man out of the chair as best she could. “When was the last time you got more than a few hours sleep? It’s been, what, three—four days now?”

“Something like that,” Sam said.

“Right,” the doctor said. “I had them put a cot in my office. I want you on it in three minutes or I’m calling for help to have you admitted.” She twisted his earlobe and forced him up.

“Ow!” Sam grinned ruefully. Sam washed his face with his hand and tiredly rose. “Call me if there is any change at all,” he said. By the time he made it to Rania’s office he was seeing double. Still, before he lay down, he dialed Caleb to let him know the succubus was dead and that they were both alive. Sam was asleep before the call was even finished.

* *

Sam eyed the monitor until he was mesmerized by the constant dips and peaks of his brother’s beating heart. He’d been watching it for days now, and he thought he might have just seen a subtle change in pattern. He turned his attention back on Dean. There had been no outward change, despite the odd blip on the monitor. Sam softly brushed some matted hairs off of Dean’s forehead and resumed the quiet monologue he’d been softly murmuring for far too long. “Hey Dean, you gonna wake up for me, man? Cleo brought Derby Pie for us today. If you don’t wake up soon, I’m going to eat it all.” He tried baiting his brother into consciousness, but he got no response. Not even for pie. Sam swallowed and reached for his brother’s hand.

He’d spent every moment that Rania would allow, gently nudging his brother, talking to him, washing that fucking paint off his skin. In those hours Sam had found a lot of time for thought, time to try and process what had actually happened. He’d spoken to Caleb again but the hunter was just as perplexed. It was known that Dark Muses drained the life energy and assimilated the essence of those they attached themselves to, but as far as he knew none of them had ever gone off the rails like this one had. As far as Caleb was concerned, though, it didn’t matter just as long as she was dead. He chalked it up to supernatural insanity and left it that, a win was a win. But Sam knew better. He’d witnessed the muse’s behavior and heard her final words to him. Sam knew exactly what had happened and it had profoundly unnerved him. He’d always been well aware of Dean’s protective nature, had witnessed it again and again throughout the years. He’d been on the receiving end of it more than anyone else ever had. He’d known precisely what Dean was capable of, but to see it played out right in front of him, to actually witness it had left him numb. Terrified. “Don’t ever do that for me, Dean. Don’t ever leave me that way. I’m begging you. I need you too much,” he whispered. Sam put his face in his hands and massaged his forehead and eye sockets until he saw stars. He wanted to stop thinking, but the stillness of his brother made it impossible for his brain to shut off.

“I have a brother,” Dean croaked in a hoarse whisper that muffled even further by the oxygen mask.

Sam’s head came up with a snap and he looked at Dean. His brother’s eyes were mere slits and there was pain in them, but there was also relief. And Sam saw his brother fully present in them for the first time in over a week.

“Dean! Hey, man,” Sam took his brother’s hand and gripped it in his. “Yeah. Yeah you do. I’m right here.”

“Thought I lost you,” he murmured quietly. “Bad dreams.”

“Never, man,” Sam assured him, giving his hand another squeeze. “It’s good to see you,” he said as he felt Dean make an attempt to squeeze back.

“W’time is it?” he whispered again.

“Time? You’ve been unconscious for two days,” Sam said.

“Only two?” Dean murmured and closed his eyes. “M’I still Berkosomethin’?”

Sam grinned. “Berkowitz, and yeah, shhh,” he said lowering his voice and looking around a little nervously.

Dean opened his weary eyes and looked at his brother. “You need a shave, dude,”

Sam smiled. “So do you, man. How do you feel?” Sam’s watched as Dean began to sluggishly move other body parts.

Dean winced. “Chest hurts,” he said trying to get his hand up to his chest. He gave up the attempt about halfway there.

“Yeah, sorry, man. I cracked one of your ribs.” Sam looked at his brother, and the fact that Dean was going to recover from this hunt started to sink in. Sam felt dizzy. “Jesus Dean,” he said as the taut balloon of ten days worth of fear and worry starting to deflate with a hiss of escaping tension and stress. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dean. That was too close.” Tears welled up involuntarily, his body’s reaction to the profound relief. He batted the tears away, not wanting to stress his brother.

“She dead?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “She’s gone.”

“You get her?”

Sam thought a moment and half smiled. “Just finished what you started. You Trojan-Horsed her, dude,” he said.

Dean quirked a tired eye. “Huh?” he looked confused.

“I’ll explain later,” Sam said lowering his voice. All the monitors had alerted the nurses to the changes in Dean’s vitals and they suddenly had company. Sam soon found himself pushed off to the side as a swarm of activity surrounded Dean. Dr. Liron came in a moment later.

“Hey you,” she said as she bent down to examine her patient, her personal relief and delight palpable. “Nice to have you with us again. How do you feel?”

“Uh, m’OK, I guess,” he said guardedly, uncomfortable with the flurry of attention that waking had earned him. Dean groaned and sighed when she pulled out her penlight and checked his eyes and other reflexes.

“Big baby,” she chuckled. “Work with me, Dean. You’re not even photosensitive right now.”

“Dun’ care. Dun’ like it,” he winced, finally relaxing when she was finished.

“All done,” she said. Once the nurses cleared out of the vicinity the doctor removed his oxygen mask and replaced it with a nasal cannula. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

Dean looked wary. “Not really,” he said looking toward Sam.

Sam bent close. “She knows everything, Dean. She was there when Leana died. Do you remember that?”

Dean shook his head tiredly and closed his eyes. “Don’t remember much of anything,” he said. Sam could tell that was mostly true. He could also tell that whatever Dean did remember, he wasn’t ready to talk about yet.

“Well, you just get some sleep, Dean,” Dr. Liron said, but she needn’t have bothered. He was already there.

* *

Dean improved quickly. The next day he was moved from the ICU to his own room. Once the brothers were alone Dean was able to stay awake long enough for Sam to fill him in on the basic details of what had happened. He told Dean how they’d taken Leana’s body from the concert hall the night after Dean was brought to the hospital and he and Cleo had salted and burned it. He didn’t tell him what Leana had said to him before she died, though. That could wait. As Sam told him the story, though, his brother became more withdrawn. Dean didn’t ask many questions and soon opted out of the conversation all together saying he was tired. He slept on and off that whole day without saying anything else. Sam was worried, but he knew his brother well enough to know that he had to work some things through on his own, he vowed to give him some much needed breathing room. At least for now.

The next couple of days were taken up with more tests, courtesy of Dr. Liron. She performed another fMRI and found that all of Dean’s brain activity had apparently returned to normal, and of course no hospital stay would be complete without a visit from Cleo.

She made sure Dean was well supplied with goodies, games, flowers and balloons. Dean shyly thanked her for everything but she pshawed him away with a flap of her meaty arm. “No need to thank me. That’s what friends are for. You just get better, y’here?” She waggled a thick finger at him. “Bless your heart. Now eat lots, hon. You’re too thin.” Dean muttered something incoherent and looked embarrassed, but the first genuine smile since this whole thing began spread across his face as Cleo patted him on his cheek.

Dean was released on the morning of his sixth day at the hospital. Rania wanted to keep him another day, but of course Dean wouldn’t hear of it. She agreed to release him on the solemn promise that he’d take it easy. She personally wheeled Dean out to the Impala that Sam had pulled around to the exit.

“Be sure to call me if you need anything. Sam has my number,” she said, looking from one brother to the other. Sam bent down and embraced her.

“There’s no way I can thank you for everything you’ve done,” he said. “I’m sorry for all the trouble we caused.”

“Don’t mention it, Sam,” she said with a squeeze. “I’m just so glad everything worked out for you boys.”

“Are you going to be OK?” Sam asked. He knew she was still somewhat struggling with everything that had happened.

She looked at Sam and shrugged. “I’ll get by. I have my work, and that’ll keep me busy. I don’t understand everything that you boys do, but I’m glad you do it. Just be safe, please.” She turned to Dean and gave him a hug. “You take care of yourself, you hear me?”

It was hard to wrap his head around owing so much to someone that he honestly didn’t remember all that well, but his gratitude was genuine nevertheless. Sam had told him everything she’d done for them and of her unrelenting efforts to revive him. He knew he wouldn’t have made it if she hadn’t been there. “I promise. Thank you so much, for everything,” he said. Rania’s eyes were moist as she regained her professional posture. She smiled and made sure Dean was settled in the passenger seat before walking away without a backwards glance.

Dean let out a sigh of release as his brother handed him the baggy with his amulet and other jewelry. As Sam started the car and pulled away, Dean settled back in the arms of his baby and dozed as Sam navigated them back to the motel.

* *

Sam had gotten so used to seeing the mural that he really didn’t give it much thought as they entered the room. Dean, however, had never really seen it or he didn’t remember much about it. He stood completely still for several minutes taking it in. The longer he looked at it the more humiliated and uncomfortable he became. Sam watched him swallow and cast his eyes to the ground, not wanting to look at Sam looking at him. Without a word he went into the bathroom and showered until the water ran cold. When he finally emerged he kept his eyes averted and sat pensively at the edge of the bed. He began breaking down and cleaning his gun.

“Dean,” Sam said. He’d promised himself that he’d give his brother space, but he could see the pain there. It was too hard to see him like that without at least offering help. “You need to talk about this, man.”

Dean didn’t look up and kept his hands busy with work. “Nothing to talk about, Sam.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” he retorted. “Now, talk to me, Dean.”

Dean glanced up at the mural and then at Sam and shrugged his shoulders in frustration and bitterness. “What’s to say? I don’t remember everything, and there are some days that I have no memory of at all, but I know I became her little bitch and did whatever she wanted me to. And it sucks to know that I couldn’t make her stop. She kept hurting me and working her mojo on me until I was hers. She won. She made me care about her, and I’m pissed about it.” He worked deftly with the gun and then paused. “I’m pissed at her, and I’m pissed at me for not being able to fight her off. I was weak,” he sighed.

Sam sat on the edge of his bed opposite Dean. “Dude, she was a fucking succubus. Not your everyday succubus, this was the industrial strength kind. Caleb says those that feed the way she did are extremely rare. Only nine are known to have ever existed. This wasn’t like trying to fight off your average ghost possession, Dean. You do know that she said she had lived for three thousand years, right? Three thousand years and the only person that got to her was you. You can’t beat yourself up for anything. Caleb also says that he hasn’t heard of anyone being tapped by a Dark Muse and not being affected by her. I honestly don’t think there is another person who could have fought her off the way you did.” He paused a moment. “It scares the shit out of me, in fact,” he admitted, forgetting to censor himself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean said a little defensively.

Sam tried to correct his tone. He didn’t want Dean to shut down entirely when he’d actually opened up if even just a little. He tread as lightly and as cautiously as he could. “Dean,” he said gently. “She took your life force from you. She started talking like you, saying things you would say. She started acting like you, making decisions you would make in the same situations. You know exactly what I mean.” Dean let out a skeptical huff of air and continued oiling the gun. “That scares the hell out of me, man.”

“Don’t be such a girl, Sammy,” Dean said with a feigned shrug and forced grin.

Sam knelt forward and put his hand over Dean’s to stop his feverish gun-cleaning and forced his brother to look at him. “She told me, Dean. She said that what she did to herself was the same decision you’d make.”

Dean shook his head adamantly, his deflection entirely transparent. “Here we go again. Didn’t we just have this conversation last hunt? She was a monster. Monsters lie, Sam. She fucked with my head and now she’s fucking with yours. Bitch is dead and she’s still trying to get to me. Well, fuck her. You can’t listen to a damn word she said.”

Sam wanted to shake his brother. He wanted to call him on his bullshit, because Sam knew that was exactly what it was. He was bone weary of having monsters tell him more about his brother than Dean would. Dean knew full well that the succubus hadn’t lied about that. But like the mural on the wall, he knew that Dean resented her parading out his deepest, darkest secrets for the entire world to see. “Yeah, OK, Dean,” he placated his brother this once, because he knew that Dean needed his privacy, even if they both knew that _they both knew_. “You just got to promise me, man. You’ve got to promise me that you’ll be careful. I need you. I need you here, with me,” he said quietly.

Dean paused in his work, but didn’t take his eyes from the oil cloth he was holding. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

Sam got up and grabbed two beers from the fridge and handed one to Dean. “Good,” he said.

Dean took a long drink and spent the rest of the night meticulously cleaning every weapon they owned.

* *

Apparently the cure for chronic insomnia is almost two weeks of pure, unadulterated hell, because Sam slept like a baby for the first time since Jessica’s death, at least for one night, anyway. He drowsily pulled his pillow around his eyes, shielding them from the morning sun that was spilling directly into his eyes. When he rolled over he smelled the strong odor of paint, and he heard Dean swearing as he stumbled over something. Sam felt a thrill of anxiety shoot through him, and he bolted upright, blinking the sleep and fear away as he focused on his brother. Dean was dabbing at a glob of paint that had fallen onto his shirt. He was speckled with it and had a pretty large smear across his forehead.

“Morning sunshine,” Dean said as he waved his dripping roller at his brother. “Look at me, I’m like fuckin’ Van Gogh’s interior decorator or something,” he smiled dryly and turned to make another large sweep up and down the wall, consuming more of the mural with the paint-laden roller. He bent down and dipped his roller in the paint pan on the floor and continued on with his work.

Sam sat up and watched him for a moment, groggily trying to come down from the shot of adrenaline. “Time is it?” he asked, blinking as he attempted to focus on the anachronistic digital clock on the bed stand.

“It’s late enough for me to have gone to the hardware store and brought back breakfast,” he said motioning to the table where coffee and donuts were sitting. “I think this is going to take a couple of coats,” he said looking at his handiwork. Sam came over and surveyed the wall with him. A part of him felt a huge sense of loss with each stroke that his brother made over the wall, but at the same time, he understood. This should have never been. Not really. Sam could see it in Dean’s eyes that he couldn’t cover it up fast enough. For him it was worse than being naked in public.

Sam grabbed a donut and ate it in three bites and drank half of his coffee. He spied a second roller and filled another paint pan and joined his brother, wordlessly helping him to restore the walls. They spent all morning at it, neither saying a word about the painting or the succubus. They made small chit-chat and talked about other hunts, other towns they wanted to check out, and where their dad might be in all of this. After a couple of coats they were nearly as covered in white paint as the walls. They both stood back and looked at the blank canvas. The paint didn’t quite match the rest of the motel walls, and they’d gotten more than a little paint on the carpet despite the sheets that Dean had placed around the work area. It was an amateur job at best, but not one smudge of the mural remained.

“Dude, we are so not getting our deposit back,” Dean said ruefully.

“Nope,” Sam agreed. “Not a chance. In fact, we should get the hell out of here as quick as we can.”

“Yeah, well, I got to make one stop first. Cleo is going to meet us at the concert hall.” Dean nodded toward the easel and other oil painting supplies he had stacked by the door. “Come on, help me get this stuff out to the car,” he said.

* *

Sam was stunned to see the door to the storage closet. “This wasn’t here when we came looking for you,” he said. He examined the door, checking the hinges and lock.

“Oh, it was here, all right. Leana just had ways of hiding things really well.” They went inside and collected the other easel and canvases. Dean stopped and stood deadly still as he looked at the mattress by the wall where Leana had sung to him for hours on end.

“I’ll come back and clean up most of this stuff. Let’s just get the paintings and art supplies out for now. I’ll meet you boys upstairs,” Cleo said as she headed out the door, her arms loaded down with equipment.

Sam wasn’t sure what Dean was feeling, whether pain or revulsion or a mixture between the two. He just knew he wanted to get his brother out of this dark, musty room. He stacked the canvases and moved to go. “You ready, man?” he asked, nodding toward the door. Dean didn’t move. “Dean? You OK?”

Dean shook his head, looking suddenly stricken and withdrawn. “Coming back here…” he swallowed and gathered himself. “Coming back here has brought it back. I remember some things, now,” he hesitated uncertainly and swallowed. “Well, no, actually I don’t think these are my memories. I think they’re Leana’s.”

“Dean?” Sam looked worried. Dean continued to stare at the mattress in pensive thought. He cleared his throat.

“I can’t remember what happened that last day, but when she gave it back…when she gave _me_ back, some of _her_ memories came with it, too. Or something. I can see and feel what she felt that last day. I know she was sincere. I know she didn’t want to be evil anymore. She wanted to be saved. She wanted to be good.” He cleared his throat again and stood quietly, painfully avoiding eye-contact.

“Don’t do that, Dean,” Sam said. “The only regrets that Leana had were the regrets _you_ gave her. Don’t confuse things. She only wanted to be good because you were influencing her thoughts.”

Dean thought for a moment, but the agony and guilt in his face did not diminish. “I know,” he said nodding but clearly not entirely accepting the explanation, either. “I just wish…” he looked bereft. “She gave her life for me. Maybe it would have been better if…”

Sam spun on his brother, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket and shook him with bitter frustration. “Don’t say it, Dean. Don’t you even goddamned dare think it! Don’t you dare feel like you should have done something or given up something for _her sake_. The only redeeming qualities that Leana ever exhibited were _your qualities_. You didn’t see her after she fixed you. She was evil, Dean. There was nothing left to save. She tried to kill you. She spit in your face. Don’t feel sorry for her. The only good in her was the good in you. Only one of you was going to survive, man. Don’t you mother fucking dare look me in the eye and say that it should have gone any other way!” When Dean didn’t respond, Sam let out a guttural growl of frustration. “Don’t you get it? It was _you_ who sacrificed, not the muse! And in some weird, twisted fucked up way it worked out in our favor _this time_. But what about next time, Dean? Huh?” Sam was breathing his fury and fear out in sharp, strained huffs. His eyes began to water. “What the hell are you thinking, Dean? You can’t keep doing this. I need you, man. I need you here. With me. Don’t even think it.” They stood inches apart, face to face. Sam searched his brother’s eyes even as they remained shuttered and averted. “Dean,” he begged. He gave his brother one more light tug on his jacket. “You said it yesterday, she fucked with you. Don’t let her keep doing it, man. She was a monster, plain and simple. You said so yourself.”

Dean cleared his throat and briefly looked his brother in the eye, lifting the veil ever so briefly, revealing his pain and confusion. Dean’s tension deflated. “OK,” he nodded at last. The elder hunter shrugged off his thoughts and grabbed the easel and palette. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said dully.

“Dean,” Sam tried to stop him.

“I hear you,” he said more gently than Sam expected. Dean looked at his brother. “I hear you. I’ll do my best, Sammy.”

* *

They salted and burned each painting, one at a time. Sam didn’t think the salt was needed, but Dean seemed to need the ritual of it. He tossed his sketchpad on top and let that go up, too. Sam grabbed the next canvas and looked at it before throwing it on the fire.

“Dude. You can’t burn this. Holy shit, Dean,” he marveled.

Dean came up and looked at the painting with him. “I actually remember this one,” he said. “Leana hated it. Told me it was an ugly old thing and that I shouldn’t have wasted my time painting her.”

“There’s no way you’re destroying this,” Sam said adamantly. “Is this what it looked like to you, when you were…you know…” he hesitated.

“Yeah,” he nodded, lovingly eying the canvas. “Well, we can’t take it with us,” he lamented. “It’s not like we can just keep it in the car.” Dean caressed the edge of the canvas with reverence and affection.

Cleo came up and looked at the painting. “Oh my, honey. She’s beautiful.”

Dean nodded, “She really is, isn’t she?” he agreed. He gave it a wistful look of regret. “I just don’t see any way of taking her on the road with us.”

“Would you like me to look after her for you? I can keep it for you. I promise I’ll take good care of her. And that way, you’ll have to come back and visit to make sure I’m treating her right,” Cleo offered with a wink.

Dean thought about it for a moment, and then handed the canvas over to her. “You take good care of m’baby. Make sure she’s lit well,” he said with a grin.

“I’ll do that,” she promised.

“I want you to take the easels and paints and other supplies back to the community center and use them for the artists there,” Dean said. “And there’s one more thing. I want you to have this,” he said shyly handing her another canvas.

Cleo gaped at the painting. “What is this?” she gasped. “This is gorgeous, Dean. Who is it? Is this some goddess?” She leaned the painting against the building and stepped back and goggled at the beautiful ethereal being in flowing white with prismatic beams of light shooting out from her.

Dean shyly scratched his head and looked at his feet. “Uh, no. It’s you,” he said dumbly.

Cleo goggled at him. “Me?”

“It’s…you know. It’s how you appeared to me when I could…I dunno…see under the hood, so to speak. It’s what you look like. On the inside.” Dean shuffled uncertainly and cleared his throat. Before he could try and make an awkward escape, Cleo caught him in a fierce bear hug.

“Oh, bless your heart,” she crooned with tears flowing down her cheeks. She kissed his cheek and squeezed him some more. She looked at the painting again, and just shook her head, truly overcome with emotion. “Thank you, Dean. I’ll treasure this always,” she assured him.

“Alright,” Sam interrupted, trying to save his brother further embarrassment. I guess that does it for us. “You ready to head out, Dean?”

“Yeah,” he said before getting grabbed and squeezed one last time by Cleo.

“You boys take good care of yourselves,” she said grabbing Sam next and squeezing extra tight. She kissed his cheek and pinched it. “Make sure you eat. You’re both too thin,” she chided.

“We will,” Sam grinned. “Thanks for everything you did for us, Cleo. We wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Cleo waved him away. “It wasn’t anything. Now you come back and visit again, soon,” she said with a waggle of her finger.

Dean walked around to the driver’s side of the Impala and motioned for Sam to throw him the keys. “I got it,” he said. Sam tossed him the keys and opened the passenger door. Dean settled himself behind the wheel with a sigh of genuine comfort. “I missed you, baby,” he sang as he caressed the steering wheel. With a wave, they bid Cleo a final goodbye and got back onto the road.

“That was really nice of you, Dean. You know, to do that for Cleo. You really do have a thing for her, don’t you?” he smirked.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean said chagrined. He cleared his throat. “Where to? North?”

“Suits me,” the younger hunter said. “We still have several hours of light. We can drive for a while and then spend the night in Iowa maybe. Find something there?” Sam looked at his brother’s smile as he drove. He tried not to think about the succubus and what she had said about him, but the fear still clung to him.

“That’ll work,” Dean agreed. He turned on Zeppelin and rolled down his window allowing the crisp autumn air to blow through his hair. He glanced at Sam who was regarding him thoughtfully, expectantly. _Oh god_ , he thought. _Here we go again._ He cleared his throat and looked at the skyline of the city as they headed out of town. “Lou-wee-ville,” he snorted. “This is one weird-ass town, dude. Let’s never come back here.”

“It’s pronounced Loo-uh-vul, Dean,” Sam said absently.  

“Same song, second verse…”  

“What’s that, Dean?” Sam asked. 

“Nothing, Princess.”  Dean grinned and turned up the volume as Zep played them out of town. 

_**The End.** _


End file.
